


2019 MorMor Advent Challenge

by RueRambunctious



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Advent Calendar, Ficlet Collection, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Swearing, mild violence, vagueshipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-18 04:00:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 26,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21671458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RueRambunctious/pseuds/RueRambunctious
Summary: Sir-curse-a-lot on Tumblr gave me a nudge to attempt MorMor version of Miss Davis' Advent Challenge. The prompts are:1.	Snowflake2.	Wish3.	The more the merrier4.	Lights5.	Wind6.	Angel7.	Ashes and soot8.	Warm bath9.	Festive10.	Once a year11.	Chimney12.	Bah humbug13.	Family14.	Not a creature was stirring15.	Midnight16.	Baby please come home17.	Wonder18.	Exhausted19.	Escape20.	Christmas present21.	Winter22.	Miracle23.	Sentiment24.	And to all a good night
Relationships: Irene Adler/Sebastian Moran/James Moriarty, Molly Hooper/Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty, Sebastian Moran/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 24
Kudos: 31
Collections: 2019 Advent Ficlet Challenge





	1. Snowflake

Sebastian was singing along comfortably to the song being emitted from his phone's admittedly tinny speakers whilst he walked around the large kitchen preparing his and Jim's lunch. Despite being an exceptionally clever sod and well-versed in chemistry, Jim had never been much of a cook. In fact, Jim was rather the sort of fellow inclined to make things go 'boom' without even a plausible reason, and his uncanny focus for work never, ever extended to cooking.

Jim set fires in the kitchen even when making cold dishes so Sebastian always prepared their food unless they had a chef on staff or were eating out. Seb didn't mind doing all of the cooking, but he had persuaded Jim to provide him with a state of the art kitchen. Having spend most of his young adulthood in the forces Sebastian was perfectly capable of cooking in dire surroundings, but if he was going to be a billionaire genius' kept boy the least Jim could do is provide a decently stocked kitchen.

Not that Sebastian thought of himself as much of a kept boy, despite disparaging little barbs Jim might make otherwise. Seb more than worked for his living, what with being his little megalomaniac's chef, live-in bodyguard, pet assassin, and all-round skivvy.

As such, Sebastian was well accustomed to keeping his own company whilst Jim schemed and weaved an incomprehensibly complex web of dastardly doings. It was a pleasant surprise when Jim sloped into the kitchen.

“Do you need anything?” Seb asked.

Jim wrinkled his nose at Sebastian's choice in music. “At least put that through my speaker system if you must have it blaring,” he said.

Seb bravely indicated his occupied hands. “You know my password,” he said.

Jim scoffed but seemed in reasonable enough spirits. He reached for Sebastian's phone and flicked through it.

Sebastian rolled his eyes as a song Jim liked better started blasting through Jim's state-of-the-art music system. Still, at least it was a song from the playlist Seb was listening to.

Jim smirked and put the phone back on the kitchen counter as though to say the song change was the price of doing business.

“Did you want anything?” Sebastian repeated.

Jim shrugged. “What you're making smells good.”

“Everything I cook smells good,” Seb grumbled good-naturedly.

Jim smiled and said nothing. He went and sat on one of the stools at the breakfast bar. “You smell good too,” he said almost inaudibly.

Sebastian tilted his head. “You pick my entire range of toiletries,” he said with a wry half-smile.

Jim wrinkled his nose again. “Your earlier choices offended me.”

“Mainly because they didn't cost two black market organs a pop,” Seb mocked.

“I have to spend my fortune somewhere,” Jim said calmly. He pulled out his own phone and scrolled through it absently. “Would you rather I spent it on fast cars and fast women?”

Sebastian buckled so fully and abruptly at the absurdity of that thought that he almost smashed his face off of the glass hob. “What would you know about women?”

“Have you forgotten Irene?” Jim asked with an unkind smirk.

Seb's cheeks turned pink. “Oh, of course if you were ever to team up with one it would have to be a _sadist_...”

“I don't remember you complaining at the time,” Jim said casually. His eyes glinted over his phone screen. “Or at least, you didn't sound like you _meant_ your protests...”

Sebastian gave the other man a surly look and turned back to the food he was preparing.

“Are you sulking?” Jim asked. He sounded unapologetically amused.

“...Yes,” Seb huffed, although he wasn't really cross.

“Didn't you like being the centre of both of our attentions?” Jim asked with faux innocence.

“I like you better when you're in your office,” Sebastian grumbled softly.

Jim chuckled. “You're precious when you're tetchy.”

Seb twisted around, mildly aggrieved. “ _Tetchy_?”

“Quite adorable,” Jim said. He waved his hand dismissively. “Don't get distracted. I shan't be best pleased if you burn my lovely meal.”

“Might not give you any,” Sebastian mutters. He moves things to a lower heat. “Or maybe I'll put it over your head...”

“Rather sensitive today, aren't you, Tiger?” Jim commented gleefully.

“Isn't there a war-torn country you can prod at instead?” Seb asked.

“Mmm, but they're rarely as much fun as you, darling,” Jim said.

Sebastian rolled his eyes. “Isn't there anything interesting happening in the world?”

“Hmm, well here's a soldier telling Twitter he plans to resign after his face was used in that 'snowflake' recruitment campaign.”

Seb turns and tilts his head quizzically. “ _What_?”

“Apparently he's based at the Wellington barracks and has to wait five months to leave,” Jim said. “He's too recent to be one of your squaddies though.”

“ _What_ snowflake campaign?” Sebastian asked.

Jim raised a brow. “You haven't seen the campaign targetting Gen Zs? There's billboards all over the place. The MoD spent quite a bit of money on it.”

“I haven't been out on a job in weeks,” Seb pointed out. “The most I've been out is to pick up groceries that we don't get delivered, or my morning run, and at that time of the day I am not looking at billboards.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “Well they got quite a bit of flak about it, but it's also been their most successful campaign in forever. They're up a thousand applications in the first quarter alone.”

“Jesus, what are these adverts like?” Sebastian asked. “Let me turn down the heat on the sauce and put this in the oven then you can show me.”

Jim hummed and pulled up the campaign posters readily. They were a reimagining of Lord Kitchener's easily recognisable 'Your Country Needs You' designs.

Sebastian padded over to Jim and squinted at the first image. The slogan read: SNOWFLAKES Your Army Needs YOU And Your Compassion.

Seb raised his brows at Jim. “Compassion is an army trait now, is it?”

The former colonel flicked through the other posters.

BINGE GAMERS Your Army Needs YOU And Your Drive.

PHONE ZOMBIES Your Army Needs YOU And Your Focus.

SELFIE ADDICTS Your Army Needs YOU And Your Confidence.

ME ME ME MILLENIALS Your Army Needs YOU And Your Self-Belief.

Sebastian screwed up his face. “Drive and focus, yeah. If you can stay up all night drinking enough caffeinated drinks to kill a horse for a stupid game then there's some potential in that, I guess.”

“I'm thinking about running a recruitment campaign of my own,” Jim announced.

Seb handed back the phone. “Oh yeah?”

“Mm,” Jim said. “Live in one wanted. Must not burn my sauce-”

Sebastian cursed and returned to the hob swiftly.

“-Must also have better taste in music,” Jim continued.

Seb rescued the sauce and switched the heat off entirely. “You don't date me for my taste in music,” he muttered.

Jim raised his eyebrows cheerfully. “What do I _date_ you for?”

Sebastian returned to the breakfast bar. “My magnificent arse and my shooting prowess?”

Jim smiled and put his phone down. “And your abs, and your arms, and the way your neck goes pink when I tell you to bend over and put your fingers in that magnificent arse...”

Sebastian blushed predictably. “There's no one quite like you, Jim.”

“Nor you, snowflake,” Jim smirked. “Shall we switch off this hellish racket and have a pre-dinner treat?”

Sebastian swallowed and nodded. “Sounds good to me, Boss.”


	2. Wish

Sebastian tries very hard never to be early when he visits his favourite sister. He might have grown up with a reputation for being rather 'charming' but Christabelle Moran should really have a revolving door for all of the women she kicks out of bed.

Not that these women seem to mind the transient nature of most of Chris' trysts. As Seb approaches her front door he is almost sent flying by a harried brunette, and he weighs almost three hundred pounds of mostly muscle and bone.

The woman sighs and starts to apologise, and then Sebastian recognises who Chris' latest bedwarmer is. He's known her to have had sleepovers with his sister before, but that's not where Sebastian knows her from.

The brunette recognises him too. She freezes, gives Seb a very awkward look indeed, and scurries down Christabelle's front steps. “I'm going to be so late,” she mutters to no one in particular, and as Sebastian turns to watch the familiar woman she disappears into a taxi, her trailing scarf doing little to tame her bouncing waves of mussed hair.

Christabelle leans in the open doorframe. “Sorry,” she says. She doesn't sound like she means it one bit. Her blue eyes linger over her brother's shoulder at the other woman's legs as the brunette scrambled into the back of the black Hackney in sensible little stilettos that probably cost as much as Sebastian's watch. That his billionaire lover had bought him.

“Lost track of time,” Chris adds.

“Deliberately?” Sebastian scoffed.

Christabelle rolls her eyes and steps backwards. She tilts her head to indicate he should come inside out of the cold. She doesn't answer.

Seb trots up the steps without being barrelled into this time and steps into his sister's entrance hall. She has stepped over to her staircase and is hanging a picture frame back on the wall. Seb gives her a dry look. He'd rather not picture her or the brunette slamming each other against the wall in their haste to get upstairs in the first place.

Christabelle turns and gives him a wry smirk. “Don't look at me like that. I've heard what you and Jim are into.”

“I don't make a show of it in front of you,” Seb grumbles, but he doesn't really care. He's used to her antics.

Christabelle straightens a few more bits of artwork and indicates the coat rack. “Aren't you staying?”

Sebastian rolls his eyes but begins to unfasten his heavy coat. “Are you intent on putting the kettle on then?”

Chris laughs. “Put it on yourself. And bring the biscuit tin.”

“Do all your guests get this grand hospitality?” Seb sneered softly.

Christabelle's eyes twinkled. “Well no, baby brother, but mostly because they'd rather eat _me_.”

Sebastian makes a disgusted noise. “I'll get the biscuits,” he huffs. “You better have the good ones!”

“Of course I do, but I hid them for you coming,” Chris mocked.

“The least you could do is get me a good biscuit,” Seb grumbles. He is pleased not not really surprised to discover his big sister has actually bought in his favourites. He munches on one as he sets about making them tea.

When he brings them through Christabelle is swiping through her tablet, setting up a connection to their brother Severin. Sebastian sits down beside his sister.

A poor quality video feed appears on the screen. Severin looks tan and lean in desert fatigues and a party hat.

“Happy holidays,” Chris trills.

Severin grins wide enough to show all his teeth. “What terrible thing did I do to deserve to see your ugly mugs?” he asks.

“War _wrecks_ your karma, bruv,” Sebastian tells him cheerfully.

“Oh, and how's your karma doing?” Severin scoffs. “Are you still the kept boy of a criminal mastermind?”

“ _Why_ do you both have this idea that I'm the bitch in my relationship?” Sebastian demands through gritted teeth.

Chris and Sev raise their brows at each other. “Because it's true?” they point out.

Seb curses them and glowers into his tea. He takes another biscuit.

Severin and Christabelle chat at length. Sebastian joins in when his mouth is no longer full.

Eventually Sev states that he has to tie up the call. He had duties to perform, and a queue for the Skype-enabled computers is forming.

“Try not to get yourself killed,” Christabelle says. She blows a kiss at the screen.

“Try not to spread too many STIs,” her brother counters. Chris snickers.

Sebastian's smirk slides off his face as Severin turns to look at him. “And you,” the other blond says, “please try to make sure your delightful husband doesn't start any bloody wars or calamities whilst I'm still out in the field, alright?”

“You'd best make sure I get a good Christmas present,” Seb retorts.

Severin snorts. “What do I get the kept boy of the Most Dangerous Man in London?”

“A doughnut cushion?” Chris suggests.

Severin cackles. “I've really got to go,” he says reluctantly. “Don't kill each other!”

“No promises!” Seb tells the tablet screen, waving as Sev ends the chat.

He turns to his sister. “A fucking doughnut pillow?”

She tilts her chin up at him. “You think I've not noticed how you're sitting? That sort of gift might do you some good! Or you could just ask _Jim_ to roll over and take it for once.”

Sebastian covered his ears as he blushed hard. “Oh my god, Chris, _shut up_!”

“It's a fair point,” Christabelle argues calmly. Seb groans pointedly. She rolls her eyes and hands him another biscuit.

Seb gives her a skeptical look but accepts the treat anyway. His indignation fades as he eats.

“Hey Chris?” Sebastian says.

His sister looks at him comfortably. “Yeah, kiddo?”

He rolls his eyes. He's in his forties for fuck's sake. She's not likely to ever stop though.

Still, he's got something more pressing to say. Sebastian takes a deep breath. “I wish you wouldn't have Anthea around when I'm about to come over.”

Christabelle grins unrepentantly. “Myc doesn't approve of our relationship either. But he's started sending me a Christmas card.”


	3. The More The Merrier

“Jim?” Molly chews her lip and stands in the doorway awkwardly.

Jim Moriarty raises his eyebrows at her. He hadn't really expected her to come, although he had hoped a little.

Molly raises her chin defiantly. He likes that look on her. “You've put me in a dreadful position,” she chastises.

Jim nods seriously. “I have. You're practically lying to your friends by being here, Molly.”

She gives him a dark look that surprises Jim in its ferocity. “Don't tease, Jim.”

“I wasn't,” he murmurs. He frowns. “I mean, I didn't mean to.”

Molly nods. “Are you going to invite me inside?”

“Right,” Jim says with a frown. He doesn't know why he seems to be falling into that 'Jim from I.T.' uselessness. That was supposed to be a _character_.

Molly had walked on into his living space but she paused at the sight of the well-built blond sitting on Jim's couch. Jim is glad of the return of familiar, nervy Molly Hooper. The blond raises his brows at them both questioningly; his face strikingly scarred but no less handsome for it.

“Jim?” Molly says warily, “who is this?”

Jim smiles at the blond. “My bodyguard, Sebastian.”

“Oh. Hi,” Molly says awkwardly.

“Hi,” Sebastian says stoicly. He is giving Jim a cool look like he doesn't know where this might be going.

Jim decides, oddly, to be honest. “Molly,” he says abruptly. 

She squeaks at him.

“Sebastian is also my lover,” Jim announces. “Of many years.”

Sebastian tilts up his chin assessingly. He hadn't expected that scenario.

Molly gives them a confused look. “But...” She blushes _furiously_. The poor dear hisses, “B-But Jim, _we had sex_.”

“Yes,” Jim says simply.

“But you're with someone!” Molly exclaims.

“Ye-es, but I told him about you,” Jim says.

“So it's an open relationship?” Molly asks. “Because it's still not right if you don't tell _me_ -”

“Not exactly,” Jim says. “I don't share Sebastian, and I do as I please.”

Seb presses his lips together.

“But that's not fair!” Molly protests.

“I'm not fair,” Jim says, mildly irritated. “Did you not already scold me at length for the 'criminal mastermind' bit?”

“That doesn't mean you can just do as you like!” Molly snaps. Sebastian's brows rise even higher than Jim's.

“But it does,” Jim insists. “I-”

“Not everything is about you,” Molly says as though she thinks Jim is an utter fool. He is still trying to determine how he feels about that when she whirls on Sebastian. “How did you feel about Jim sleeping with me?” she demands.

Sebastian looks between Molly and Jim and considers, his jaw set. “…Not happy,” he admits slowly.

Molly turned back to Jim. “You can't just ignore your boyfriend's feelings-”

Jim and Sebastian twitched. That wasn't a term they tended to use for each other.

“What do you suggest I do, Molly? Buy him roses and dinner and make love to him slowly?” Jim scoffs. He feels rather wrong-footed by the sulky look Seb gives him.

“You could ask _him_ how he feels!” Molly says fiercely. Funny how she stops being a doormat when she's standing up for a six foot plus, three hundred pound stranger whose last name she doesn't know.

“Sebastian and I don't discuss feelings,” Jim asserts, as though Seb has never had to deal with his melt-downs. Jim doesn't like that disgusted but unsurprised look the blond man gives him.

Molly has taken it upon herself to stride closer to Sebastian. “You don't have to put up with this, you know. If he's threatened you-”

“I wouldn't threaten Sebastian!” Jim bellows, although he has, repeatedly and at length, he just hasn't _meant_ any of the threats that would do the man real harm.

“I wasn't talking to you,” Molly tells Jim in a harsh enough voice that he feels oddly… chastised.

Sebastian is giving Molly a wary admiring look, and Jim can just _feel_ Seb wondering what their sex life had been like. Jim feels his cheeks turn pink.

“I was going to offer a compromise,” Jim says stiffly.

Sebastian outright laughs. He looks astonished, horrified, and highly intrigued when he realises by Jim's tetchy expression that the Irishman actually means it.

Molly tilts her chin again, crossing her arms defiantly. “Go on then,” she challenges.

“I thought perhaps I ought share Sebastian a little,” Jim says slowly.

Seb's blue eyes open widen than they've likely been since Jim first hit on him, and the blond is sharp enough to look at Molly assessingly.

“That should really...” Molly sighs and pinches her nose. Sebastian wonders whether she always did that, or only once she started dating Jim. She straightens up and shakes her head. “Decisions about someone's sex life should really have some input from that person.”

“Oh, you both have a _choice_ ,” Jim says. He starts walking away and smiles at the perplexed look he can feel Molly directing at his back.

“Where are you going?” Molly asks.

“The bedroom,” Sebastian says cautiously.

“I'm giving you both a choice,” Jim calls over his shoulder. “Are you both going to join me… or not?”

Sebastian and Molly stand very still and look each other over. Seb dips his head and shrugs his broad shoulders. “We've already been sharing...” he says, “If you wanted to..?”

Molly looks a bit out of her depth. She takes a deep breath and says, “The more the merrier.”


	4. Lights

Sebastian curses and checks his surroundings. “See what happens when I follow your directions, genius? I'm going to have to-”

“You're going to pull over,” Jim says calmly.

Sebastian blinks stupidly. “I'm going to _what_?”

“Pull over,” Jim says as though he is talking to an especially slow child.

Seb looks at the flashing blue lights in the rearview mirror. “Jim...”

Jim's tone becomes forceful. “Pull. Over. Sebastian.”

Sebastian doesn't understand, but he also does not make the decisions. He lets his face speak his feelings clearly but does as he is ordered.

He groans into the steering wheel as a Met officer approaches. The closer the man gets, the easier it is to see the markings on the policeman's shoulders: he's an inspector.

“Doesn't he have better things to do?” Sebastian sighs.

“We have been rather naughty,” Jim says. He sounds amused.

Seb sideeyes the brunet hard. “ _I_ was just following orders.”

“With delight,” Jim adds with an arched brow. “You revel in being wicked to your core.”

“It's what you keep me around for,” Sebastian mutters. “What's your plan here, because if it's just to run this guy over I am warning you that-”

“Don't you dare!” Jim says sharply.

Sebastian's eyes widen at the brunet's tone. “Alright?” he says. “Because..?”

“That's Mycroft's boyfriend,” Jim says.

“Oh,” says Seb. As if he'd know that. He eyes the police officer curiously. “Isn't he… Quite handsome?”

“He must go for brains. Heaven knows he hasn't much of his own,” Jim says.

The inspector raps on Sebastian's window. Seb allows it to lower.

“Do you know why I pulled you over?” Mycroft's boyfriend asks. He sounds long-suffering already.

Jim puts an arm on Seb's chest, pushing the blond back against the driver seat, and smirks at Inspector Greg Lestrade. “Let me guess,” the Irishman drawls, “Mikey found out I'd been playing with Sherly again and he is Terribly Cross.”

Lestrade blinks repeatedly. “Jim? Of course this is the day I'm having.”

Jim smirks. “Was him indoors sulky with you this morning? I have been rather busy.”

“If you could just not that would be great,” the inspector mutters.

“Well,” says Jim, “if you let me continue on my way home I am sure 'Bastian here can find a way of _occupying my time_. If you were to detain us, well… That's rather a long time to let me plot, isn't it?”

Greg Lestrade finally looks at Sebastian. Seb tries not to feel embarrassed about the look of solidarity the handsome inspector gives him. 'I've got one of those at home, mate,' that look says.

Sebastian wonders whether dating a Holmes would be more exhausting than Jim. Probably not.

Lestrade sighs. “I am just not dealing with all of this today.” He points a finger at Jim. “You both go straight home, you keep each other occupied, you do not let London or the rest of the world burn. Deal?”

“Why officer, if you are suggesting I have long, hard, violent sex with my 'Bastian I can only bow to your wise judgement,” Jim says gleefully.

Sebastian gives the brunet a mostly scandalised, slightly amused look.

Lestrade coughs, steps back, and slaps the roof of the car twice. “Drive safe,” he says loudly.

“You little bastard,” Sebastian says as they drive off. His voice is fond despite himself.


	5. Wind

“Redbeard.”

Jim frowns, and then he smiles.

The way she says it is like a new game: a codeword and a test even more than a hello. It's the acknowledgement that Jim has been searching for for years and he cannot help but smile back at her.

He hadn't known how this would feel, not until she said that one word.

He had been curious of the game certainly, it had been so long and this method was so… Unlike what things had become for oh so many dull years. Not entirely dull, he had kept himself occupied of course, but there was nothing quite like playing with the Holmes'.

Perhaps Jim was sentimental after all, and yet he was called a psychopath.

It all feels very sharply to the front of his mind and yet also so very far to the back – all at once- as Jim Moriarty steps towards the reinforced glass.

She steps closer too. Euros.

Jim sways his head this way and that, openly considering her and the situation. She seems oddly entranced by his throat and gives him such a bright, bright burning look of, ' _I still know you_.'

He cannot help but drink her in: it has been so long since they were children.

Yes, she remembers him, whilst Sherlock does not quite, and Mycroft evidently did not recognise him at first… but Euros… That clever gaze seems to know him as well as he knows himself, perhaps… perhaps even better.

She has had a lot of time in here to think of course, and remember.

Time seems too long and too short and not very real at all, and is it not strange seeing those familiar too-knowing eyes in an adult's head for once? She is so much bigger now, a woman, and he does not know whether he is amused by that or amused by how the very same thing seems to amuse her. Or perhaps it is _he_ that amuses Euros. He is not a little child either, and he is certainly not playing pirates.

Jim has so missed Euros' games. They were always far cleverer than Sherlock's.


	6. Angel

“You… You're on the side of the _angels_.”

There is so much derision in that one word. There's pain there too, Sherlock can hear it, he's not _stupid _, but oh, is Sherlock _angry_ in that moment.__

__“I might be on the side of the angels,” Sherlock hisses, all narrowed eyes and standing straight enough to intimidate and darting in so close it _must_ be a threat… “But do not ever _think_ … for one _second_ … that I am one.”_ _

__That scene plays over again and again in Sherlock's head for years. All different angles, all different inflections, all different _ways that day could have gone _.___ _

____In Sherlock's mind palace, Jim Moriarty lies white as alabaster on the floor, expression serene as a saint, and his still-warm blood spills out in a shining halo around his skull._ _ _ _

____Sherlock feels hot blood on his face even now._ _ _ _


	7. Ashes and Soot

“Seb.”

The blonde woman is drunk; she stumbles. She's surprised to see him, her big eyes beneath a frown of concern for herself or him or both – Sebastian is not sober enough himself to ascertain. 

Her gaze softens a little, and that's worse somehow. There's a bit of longing in her look, settling down into a normal life is a hell of an adjustment, but mostly she looks haunted and horrified by his appearance.

He isn't taking as well to the lifestyle change. She – what name is she calling herself now? Mary, was it?- is with a man. The thought of _dating_ again turns Sebastian's stomach. Or perhaps that's the alcohol. Or the drugs. Or the utterly choking, all-consuming grief.

The man Mary is with has stopped walking, and _God _the bloke has grief near as deeply etched above a rather eccentric moustache as Seb has carved into his whole damned soul.__

__The man frowns and tilts his head curiously. “Colonel?”_ _

__Sebastian finds himself able to muster something that feels something like surprise. He has not been called that in a long, long, _long_ time. Anything before Jim seems like an entirely different life. It didn't count._ _

__“...Formerly,” is all Sebastian can think to say. After a beat he thinks to raise his eyebrow questioningly, and supposes he ought to care why this man seems to know him. It doesn't really matter: Seb hasn't cared about many things since… Well, after._ _

__The other bloke takes a step forward. A limp, pronounced, but straight-backed posture. Former military himself, likely. Sebastian doesn't care enough to wrack his brains for someone from his irrelevant past._ _

__“Captain Watson,” Mary's bloke says._ _

__She wraps an arm around said captain. “He was a doctor,” she says, warningly, as Sebastian suddenly flares to life._ _

__“ _Watson_ ,” Sebastian repeats, jaggedly. “John Watson.”_ _

__Watson looks mildly alarmed to have provoked such a response, but he also looks too far within grief to react much either._ _

__“Perhaps we should get some drinks,” Mary says, carefully loud and far too brightly._ _

__Distracted, John Watson nods, he _agrees_ , Mary points at Seb's drink and names the brand, and Johnny-boy goes off to the bar._ _

__Sebastian's hands are fists. “What are you _thinki-_?”_ _

__“He'll get it,” Mary says, voice low and wise and ever so horrible in its familiarity. Sebastian hates everything from the past._ _

__He considers her words slowly. “He can't-”_ _

__“Better than anyone else, he'll get it,” Mary reiterates._ _

__Sebastian feels old, and he feels soiled, and he feels all sorts of jagged – shattered - _broken_. He's not certain he even wants to be got. He just wants -_ _

__His hands tighten into fists again, and he doesn't remember them loosening up in the first place. He can't get what he wants. Not ever again. The closest he will get will be death, and the only thing that's stopped him so far is the fervent, desperate hope-wish that this is all some fucking horrible game and Jim'll be home soon._ _

__Jim doesn't come home soon, but drinks are had and Mary leaves and more drinks are had and she had looked at him – at him and Watson both- as though she was offering some sort of favour and…_ _

__They slept together. Him and Watson. Astonishing really, that either of them could get it up after all that booze and barely spoken grief but… Like knows like, pain knows pain and strange bedfellows are made in strange circumstances._ _

__They are a strange circumstance. Stranger still when Watson's landlady makes allusions to how Watson always has a new girlfriend every two minutes, but Mary seems to be a regular thing, and she gives Watson the evils like she's worried Sebastian _and_ Mary are going to get their hearts broken. _ _

__As if Seb had anything left in his chest to break._ _

__Still, his chest feels tighter when motherfucking Sherlock fucking Holmes returns from the dead and the worst part of it is the cutting, strangling, disabilitating dying hope when Jim doesn't._ _

__Sebastian almost kills Watson and Holmes after that. Probably would of, even though Mary threatened -eyes wet, why wet?- to take him down herself if he tried._ _

__As though Sebastian hadn't been aching to be put down and out of his misery for _such_ a long time already._ _

__He was all but ready for that death -guns loaded and prey tracked- when the unexpected happens._ _

__Jim does come back._ _

__And if he's got a fucking word to say about Sebastian fucking Watson the little Irish bastard is going to have to pick his jaw off of the floor, because he is lucky Seb didn't kill Jim for real when he punches his hope-wish-hurt-pain-love-husband-bastard-husband._ _

__“You could have missed me,” Jim says after two months of having his smarmy little jaw wired shut._ _

__“You could have warned me,” Sebastian says. He feels like he's spent years walking through fire, nothing but charred bones and ash and soot, but he twines his fingers with Jim's lively little death hands and finally Seb doesn't really want to die anymore._ _


	8. Warm Bath

“Bathroom, now.”

Jim's voice is sharp and Sebastian thinks the strain must be from a worry his blood will stain the expensive carpeting. Seb is somewhat disgruntled by that, because he's sore and tired and _did a good job_ and clearly isn't as important as the easily replaced furnishings.

Jim's face is tight and he runs the bath himself as though Sebastian cannot be trusted with such a simple task. Seb stands there impotently on the heated tiles and wonders whether he has permission to take his damned jacket off yet.

Jim snatches open the medicine cabinet and yanks down the first aid kit. “Can you undress?” he asks.

Sebastian stares at the man. Hard. “I'm not _stupid_.”

Jim Moriarty blinks. He looks Seb up and down with a frown before batting the air agitatedly with his hand and snapping, “Not theoretically! Can. You. Undress. Or. Are you too injured?”

“Oh.” Sebastian shakes his head like a dog trying to dislodge water. “No, I… I'm fine.”

“You most certainly are not,” Jim says, snatching out reels and reels of gauze. Just how thick does he think Sebastian's muscles are? “You've barely moved that arm and your face is bruising already.”

Sebastian gazes down at the arm he has cradled to his chest and gives it a slightly hangdog expression. “Oh.”

“Didn't I tell you to undress?” Jim demands impatiently. He points to the makeshift tourniquet on Sebastian's arm. “Can you unfasten that yourself?”

“The bleeding's mostly stopped,” Sebastian says, as if that answers any part of the question.

Jim takes a step closer and frowns. “Your hand's purple, 'Bastian.”

Sebastian follows Jim's gaze and sees that his hand is indeed miscoloured. He tries to flex it and struggles, although his sudden, rising panic is marginally soothed by the feeble twitch of his fingertips.

Perhaps he is in more shock than he thought. Sebastian frowns, hastily attempting to unfasten his improvised tourniquet. He should know to release the tightness regularly, or risk nerve damage. _He knows that_.

Has he lost much blood? It's hard to tell.

Sebastian has barely fumbled his belt from his arm when Jim slaps him away and draws it slowly off. Seb winces at the sudden ache of too much blood trying to force its way back down his arm and raises his limb to slow the process to a more comfortable pace. Not that it's comfortable. Not at all.

Jim manoeuvres Sebastian out of his destroyed leather jacket. It's armoured, to save him if he comes off of his bike, and that's saved him from quite a bit of damage. Nonetheless, the thick skin is widely torn and wet, the greyish-teal of scraped leather soaked to mahogany with Sebastian's own blood. It was warm at the time, but it's rough and tacky now, almost dry.

It hurts to get the jacket off, and it falls to the warm tiles with an unpleasantly loud thud, but Sebastian feels a little better thus exposed. Some of the stress of the job drops to his feet too.

Jim is in at Seb's arm, grimacing and poking and moving the limb like Sebastian is merely his toy. Seb is too frazzled to care. He focuses on the running water. “Won't a bath make me bleed?”

“Do you think you can stand unaided in the shower?” Jim scoffs.

Of course he can. Sebastian opens his mouth to protest then realises he is swaying on his feet. His jeans are ripped. Half of one of his boots is scraped into almost nothing, the laces frayed to fluff and of no use whatsoever when Sebastian was trying to stem the flow of his ruptured skin. “Guess not,” Sebastian admits quietly.

“And I can't get around you easily if you sit, and this all needs cleaned, so in the tub you'll go,” Jim says. He pokes at Sebastian's arm again and the blond almost wants to hit him really, really hard in the face, but it seems the Irishman was just determining what Sebastian already knows: none of the bullet fragments are in Seb's arm.

Sebastian's gaze flutters over his wound. He doesn't think his hands are steady enough for stitching yet, even the one he's still flexing to bring the blood back into. They both feel numb.

That's not normal. Sebastian has stitched himself back up after worse than this.

Jim drops to the floor and starts unfastening the boot that's still intact. Sebastian wonders whether he's lost his mind and hallucinating. Is this the approach of unconsciousness, or did he already get home and he's taken something strong for the pain?

Jim holds him steady as he takes off each boot as well as Seb's socks. Sebastian does not comment. Strange thing to be tripping out about.

Jim reaches for Seb's fly – unhindered by the usual belt there- and undoes it. Sebastian flinches then, because certainly this is not a safe daydream to be having.

“You can't bathe wearing your jeans, and that hand's next to useless,” Jim snaps.

Sebastian raises his hand and looks at it: less purple now, but certainly an unhappy, blotchy red.

Jim stares at Sebastian's teeshirt for a moment, then he pulls scissors from the first aid kit. They're clearly meant for cutting gauze and medical tape, but Jim cuts off Sebastian's top with a cooly surgical precision that Seb supposes his subconscious must find rather deeply attractive.

Jim turns and checks the temperature of the water. His shirt sleeves are rolled up and his forearms glisten as he reaches to the taps to turn them off.

“Pants,” the Irishman says, and his wet hands reach out for Sebastian's waistband.

He must be unconscious, right? Sebastian shakes his head warily. He is unwilling to give in when he is not certain how much of this is real and how much is just being drunk with pain and adrenaline and hopefully a whole lot of morphine.

“Really?” Jim scoffs. “Army, all boys' boarding school and scouts, but you're suddenly shy about your body? My intel on you was that you quite liked sharing it with anyone who asked.” He yanks.

Sebastian does not know how to feel about the sudden draft, his employer's proximity, or the undeniable proof that part of him is becoming interested in the proceedings. “You… never asked,” he says dazedly. “I think I'd like to bath in my pants please.”

“It's hardly a surprise that you of all people get off on pain and danger, if that's what you're worried about,” Jim says dryly. He helps the boxers down Sebastian's thighs and Seb steps out of them with slow but unresisting obedience.

Jim straightens, suddenly looking perplexed. “I don't ask,” he says, then abruptly turns back to the bath. “Come here.”

Sebastian steps forwards. He's still swaying a little but the heat coming up the soles of his feet is oddly grounding and reassuring.

“In,” Jim commands. He still sounds a bit strange, but Sebastian is in no place to question that.

Clumsily, Seb lumbers into the bathtub. Jim steadies him, even though he is so much smaller and usually adverse to touching, and Sebastian lowers himself with an ungainly splash.

“You're already bruising,” Jim says with a frown. “Everywhere.”

Sebastian tries to cross his arms over his bare chest defensively but his wounds force him to reevaluate that action. “I completed the job. I did everything you asked me to do.”

“I didn't realise I had to tell you to come back in one piece,” Jim snaps.

Sebastian shrugs, feeling a little sulky. “It's not like you couldn't replace me,” he mutters. He's always been one to backtalk, but with Jim Moriarty he cannot quite bring himself to sass thus whilst looking the man in the eyes. The bathwater is already murky.

Surely he should be hissing if the hot water is lapping his wounds? Sebastian tries to mentally reach out to the rest of his body and catalogue his injuries, but he is stopped short by the immense pain in his arm. He quickly stops trying.

Jim is scowling tightly. “I don't want second-best, Moran,” he growls.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Well I can't exactly magic myself back together, so I hope you don't have anything planned soon that requires me at my best.”

Dark eyes stare at him hard. “I should drown you,” Jim says, but he starts shedding his shirt and suit trousers.

This is way too much morphine, Sebastian knows. He is not willing to rip his gaze away for even a second, but he knows he must be on enough morphine to overdose if his subconscious is feeling free and brave enough to imagine _this_ scenario.

Jim pushes down his tight little charcoal boxer briefs. Huh. Sebastian had his boss pegged as a silk underwear type.

Not that he'd ever thought about that.

“You'd only get my clothes wet,” Jim mutters. He reaches for the bath's old-fashioned showerhead, switching an oblong of marble to divert the water from the taps, and climbs carefully into the tub.

Their legs are touching and Sebastian does not have enough imagination for this.

Jim jolts him back to the present with a warm jet of water on Seb's suddenly appalled wound. “You're not allowed to get shot,” Jim Moriarty says with finality.

Sebastian swallows and wonders if he is permitted to look at the pale chest close enough to press against his own. “Yes boss,” he says.


	9. Festive

Sebastian grits his teeth and clears his throat pointedly. “Jim.”

Jim has the audacity to stare the bigger man down quite unrepentantly. “That's 'boss' to you, Moran,” Jim says boredly.

Sebastian mulls that over – true, and Jim Moriarty is not a man often told 'no' - _but_ this is not the time to concede such a point. Seb already knows that if you give the little Irishman a _glance_ at an inch and he'd take a hundred miles.

“I do not consent to this,” Sebastian growls.

Jim raises his brows. The rest of his expression lags as he tries to determine whether he is offended, amused, or something else. “Oh, is that so?” Jim comments coolly.

Seb swallows and tenses his jaw. “I-”

Jim slaps Sebastian's cheek lightly enough not to hurt but firmly enough to rankle the bigger man's pride and leave it smarting a little. “You do as I decide,” Jim says firmly.

Sebastian stares hard at the little man straddling his lap and seriously considers quickly splaying his thighs to force Jim to fall bum-first onto the floor.

Jim reads the treasonous thought and gives the muscular blond a sharp glare. “Oh, I _dare_ you to try it, Moran. Then see what I do to you!”

Sebastian reluctantly dips his rebellious gaze in deference. It's probably not worth it. Jim's already in a very strange mood. Exceptionally…

Festive.

“Much better,” Jim says. “You don't want to make Father Christmas cross with you, do you?”

Sebastian rolls his blue eyes petulantly. “I've never had a particularly close relationship with him, surprisingly enough.”

“Well there's a first time for everything,” Jim says. His tone declares that he is barely listening again: the Irishman is far more interested in prodding and patting at Seb's unfortunate chin.

Sebastian tries not to think about what the exasperating brunet is doing. “Evidently,” he says, making his disgruntled feelings evident in his voice.

“Will you stop talking, Tiger?” Jim scolds. “You are making it very difficult for me to make you pretty.”

Sebastian scoffs, then almost chokes on biodegradable glitter. Jim makes the noise of an infuriated cat as Seb splutters so hard he almost upends his little dark-haired despot.

“Now look at the mess you've made!” Jim says. He slinks to his feet and gives the bigger man a 'helpful' thump to the chest.

Sebastian gives Jim a baleful look. “I think I'm allergic to Christmas.”

“Well I'm allergic to your whining,” Jim sniffs. “If you insist on wearing that ridiculous, slovenly scruff of yours I am damn well going to make you have a glitter beard over this festive season.”

Sebastian stares hard at the brunet. “Is that what this is about? Jesus, you just had to tell me to shave, Jim...”


	10. Once A Year

“Just… Just once, can we all just get along?!” Molly exclaimed.

“Quite right, Molly, dear,” Irene said with one of those wide-mouthed, eat-you-all-up smiles that made Molly's shoulders tighten reflexively. “You tell these naughty boys to behave.”

John rolled his eyes. “You're not helping,” he grumbled. His voice was tight and his eyes were narrowed: his jealousy hadn't gone anywhere.

“You of all people should be playing nicely,” Euros butted in.

John gave her one of those flustered, frustrated looks that he'd been flashing her all evening. Perhaps if he didn't cycle through women so swiftly there wouldn't be so many that made him uncomfortable, but he could be rather dense about certain matters.

“All. Of. Us,” Molly said firmly.

“You tell them, Mollikins, darling,” Jim said.

“It was you she was telling off before!” Jim snapped.

Jim blinked with a faux innocent expression that did not extend to his darkly glinting eyes. “Me?”

“Both of you, stop it!” Molly snapped.

“I believe it was Sherlock and my Christmas present who were bickering first,” Euros said calmly.

“Are you going to keep calling him that?” Sebastian grumbled.

“Don't worry, Tiger, there's enough of me to go around,” Jim said.

“Would you rather I call him Redbeard still?” Euros asked with that same false expression Jim wore.

“I'd rather you all just ate and didn't speak,” Sherlock said at last.

“Oh dear,” Jim said. “Are your sugar levels alright, Sherly? You seem a tad tetchy. Perhaps _you_ -”

“I'm going to get a drink,” Molly announced loudly. She got up from the groaning, overladen table and strode quickly into the kitchen.

She eyed Mycroft warily. He and Greg Lestrade had had similar plans of hiding out in the kitchen, but apparently Mrs Hudson had coerced them into helping.

Mycroft looked frighteningly domestic in Molly's own frilled apron and a dainty smear of white flour on his pink cheek.

Too pink: Greg must have been whispering in his ear again, the rogue.

Molly sidled past the men and reached for an already open bottle of red. “I don't know how much longer I can take this,” she prattled nervously to Mrs Hudson.

Mrs Hudson took away Molly's wine and replaced it with a tumbler of dark spirits. “They're all grown and have to learn to behave like it eventually.”

Molly snorted into her cut crystal glass. “How many trips to the hospital is that going to take?”

Mycroft made a derisive noise. “If you would insist on mixing with-”

His comment broke off in a yelp as Greg openly swatted the other man's bottom, leaving a starkly white flour handprint on Mycroft's tailored trousers.

“We spoke about being nice tonight, didn't we?” Greg said.

Mycroft's back was to Molly, but she could see his stiff shoulders and suddenly scarlet ears perfectly well. “I can hardly be nice to anyone through there-”

“Molly's not through there,” Greg said reasonably. He leaned in and brushed away the handprint he had left (a little forcefully, if Mycroft's body language is any indication).

Molly reached for one of the desserts the men have been preparing. “Maybe the problem is me,” she said. “Maybe I attract all of this-”

“The problem is not with you, dear,” Mrs Hudson said. The doorbell rang, and Molly darted up from her slump to answer it, but the older woman put a staying hand on the sagging shoulder of Molly's fluffy winter jumper. “Just stop your fretting. I'll answer the door; you finish that drink and have another one.”

Molly nodded warily. The announced arrival of the latest visitor does not seem to have eased the… 'lively' conversation coming from the others.

“Come in, come in, Mary, you must be freezing,” Mrs Hudson said.

Mary Watson – who looked little like she had before – followed Mrs Hudson slowly into the hallway and took off her outer layers.

“Rosie's sleeping… somehow,” Mrs Hudson said.

Mary nodded and chuckled weakly. She could hear the bickering from outside.

The noise level dropped as the two women entered the livelier room. “Mary,” John blurted.

“Merry Christmas, John,” she said awkwardly.

“Does anyone around here stay dead?” Sebastian muttered sourly.

“We can find out if you try stealing another of my chipolatas when you think I'm not looking,” Jim responded. Seb swallowed and returned the remaining illicitly gained sausage. The others were already snaffled.

“Death becomes you, Mary,” Irene said.

Mary smiled widely, still not entirely at ease, and took her seat. “Have you been waiting for me long? I forgot what London traffic-”

John stared her down. He still had not forgiven her entirely.

“So,” Mary said brightly, changing tact, “Sherlock, have you turned Irene here, or are you finally dating my husband?”

John spluttered, whilst Jim made a small pleased noise.

Sherlock frowned. “What makes you think Molly and I aren't dating?”

Mary snorted and indicated Jim and Sebastian. “If the poor girl was going to make the best of being a third wheel anywhere I think it would be in that relationship.”

Sebastian chuckled for the first time that night. “You might as well stop hiding in the kitchen, Molls; you've been rumbled.”

Jim made a comment Molly could not hear.

“Sandwich, anyone?” Irene asked loudly.

Molly groaned into her empty glass.

“They're calling you, Hostess,” Mycroft said.

“I think I'm just going to stay here,” Molly whimpered.

“Nonsense, I want to snog my boyfriend before we have to go through there too,” Greg said. 

“I'm much too old to be anyone's boyfriend,” Mycroft groused, but he stayed close to the other man's hip.

“I'm not stopping you,” Molly protested.

Greg shooed her. “Go be brave.”

Molly sighed and dragged herself through. 

“Nose, darling, saved you a spot!” Jim called. He indicated his lap.

Molly turned back around and entered the kitchen. She closed her eyes to avoid the men and fumbled for another glass of neat alcohol. Perhaps the bottle…

“Molly, I promise to keep him sort of under control if you come back,” Sebastian called.

Euros made a comment that Molly ignored.

She heard Sherlock's approaching footsteps – funny, the things a person can pick out even in a loud environment- and reluctantly looked up. “It's not like I don't already know,” Sherlock said in what was for him a kind, reasonable tone.

Molly wasn't certain she liked it.

“If you didn't have some sort of positive influence on Moriarty,” (Sherlock's nose wrinkled as he said it), “then he wouldn't have brought Mary back from the dead, and Rosie would not have her mother.”

“But I am dating the reason you faked your own death,” Molly said quietly. She ignored Greg and Mycroft's presence. “And his husband.”

“And definitely didn't help him fake _his_ own death, what a naughty man,” Sherlock said, for the benefit of the two men. He lowered his voice to Molly, “I can't tell you that I _understand_ it, Molly… but perhaps I can see a fraction of the appeal...”


	11. Chimney

Sebastian had checked beside the bed, under the bed, in last night's trousers, and in the pockets of every jacket he owned.

“Jim,” he said slowly.

The genius ignored him.

“Jim!”

The Irishman had the affront to look offended. “What is it, Sebastian? Can't you see that I am busy?”

Sebastian stared the little megalomaniac down. “Where are my fags?”

“Your what?” Jim drawled with an expression clearly intended to be annoying.

“My cigarettes, Jimothy,” Sebastian growled. “I can't even find my spare packs!”

“How careless of you,” Jim said.

“Jim, _where are they_?”

“Gone,” Jim said unsympathetically, “obviously.”

“Gone,” Seb repeated. He raised his voice, “ _What for_????”

“They's terribly bad for you Sebastian, as is speaking to me at that decibel,” Jim warned. “If you want to have a grown-up conversation with your Daddy you have to use your indoor voice.”

“Oh, I'll tell you what's bad for _you_ , you overgrown brat!” Sebastian snapped. “You didn't have any right to take what's mine; you've _stole_ from me.”

“You're going to be sorry, Sebby,” Jim said, lowering his phone. “And for your information I had every right: you and your life are _mine_ and I'm not being done out of one _second_ of what I am owed just because you see fit to fetch yourself some form of cancer.”

Sebastian swallowed. “You're… worried I'll get sick?”

“You're a terrible investment if you're riddled with disease,” Jim sniffed. “The smoking habit had to go.”

“I've not kicked it yet,” Sebastian said.

“Yeh-etttt,” Jim sing-songed.

Seb pursed his lips. “You can't just take my things without talking to me about it first.”

Jim raised his brows.

“You can't,” Sebastian repeated firmly. “But if you'd told me you were worried-”

“I don't worry!” Jim said sharply.

Seb breathed through his teeth. “If you care-”

Jim made a disgruntled noise and twisted away looking sulky.

“Then you should have _spoken to me about it… reasonably…_ and I'd have got some damned patches,” Sebastian says.

“There's patches in the bathroom… in the medicine cabinet,” Jim said snippily. “I know your lack of willpower.”

Sebastian snorts. “If you know my 'lack of willpower' why do you always provoke me?”

“I do no such thing,” Jim lied primly.

“I think you like it, trouble,” Seb said.

“Don't hurt your brain by thinking,” Jim snorted.

“Smoking is the only thing that keeps me calm enough not to throttle you!” Sebastian pointed out.

“Only thing?” Jim scoffed.

“I don't know if I can even face having sex without a post-coital cigarette!” Seb cried.

“Now you're just being dramatic,” Jim said.

“We're a perfect pair then, aren't we?” Sebastian said. He cursed as he noticed himself gesticulating. “Goddammit I don't even know what to do with my hands anymore! That's how stressed I am!”

“Oh dear, whatever will we do about that… or your oral fixation?” Jim deadpanned.

Sebastian snorted darkly but approached the smaller man. “I hope you don't think I'm going to _reward_ you for taking my smokes away. The withdrawal is going to make me _cranky_.”

“Oh dear, and I have _never_ tamed a wild tiger before,” Jim said.

“Can we get you to give up the sarcasm?” Sebastian grinned.


	12. Bah Humbug

“Moran?”

Sebastian has gotten used to the nuances of the lilting Irish voice of his employer, but something about the way Jim Moriarty twists his name into more than two syllables right now makes the blond look up with taunter nerves than usual.

“Boss?” Seb replies in a carefully neutral voice.

Jim's dark eyes glint and the direct attention forces Sebastian to repress a shudder. 

“Who are you texting?” Jim asks.

Seb's fingers tighten on his phone then he quickly begins to put the object aside. “Just my brother,” Sebastian answers. “Do you need something? Sir?”

Jim continues to stare. He is not quite expressionless, in fact, the difficulty in reading him seems to come from the fact that the Irishman has too many expressions on his face at any one time and they all act at war with each other.

“...No,” Jim says at last.

Sebastian is uncertain whether to feel scolded. “Do… you want to check?” he asks. He raises his phone and holds it out warily.

Jim twitches his head to the side briefly before jerking his skull back upright. “Do you want me to look through your personal phone?”

Seb let out a soft chuckle despite himself. “I doubt there's anything you couldn't already access if you wanted to.”

“Ye-es,” Jim agreed, “but I am given to understand that your _consent_ makes the situation different somehow.”

Sebastian feels his lips tugging into a light smile and tells them not to. “What's not to trust when I can't have secrets from you?”

Jim seems to get paler. He snorts dismissively. “Never mind that,” the Irishman says. “That wasn't what I came to speak to you about.”

Sebastian drops his phone back onto the bed and looks at the other man interestedly. Jim rarely comes by for anything other than work, chores, or sex, so there's a two in three chance of some fun.

...Slightly more if Sebastian admits to himself that he enjoys performing menial tasks for his captivating employer, but Seb does his best not to dwell too long or hard on that realisation.

“Your calendar is clear on Christmas day,” Jim says gruffly.

Sebastian frowns. “You always make me work Christmas.”

Jim clearly does not anticipate that reaction, and Seb warily savours the look of surprise on the genius' handsome face. 

“Well I don't need you this year!” Jim retorts. “So you can… spend time with your brother… or whatever it is you do.”

Sebastian rolls his jaw. “Who's on security detail for you then?”

“Whoever I decide,” Jim says.

Seb protests, “It's my job to-”

“To do _exactly as I decide_ ,” Jim declares firmly, bristling.

“But I'm qualified!” Sebastian argues. “I'm not letting just anyone look after you!”

“Do you think I am incapable of recognising my needs?” Jim asks incredulously. “I am hardly likely to pick someone unsuitable… unless you're declaring yourself so!”

“I just want to make sure you're safe!” Sebastian says. He notices he is on his feet and his fists are balled.

He swallows and carefully takes a respectful step back.

Jim recognises the action and merely glowers tolerantly. “I thought you were due a day off,” the Irishman says stiffly.

“I don't need one,” Seb says mildly. “I just need some time to catch up on sleep now and again. I can work Christmas, Sir.”

“You're impossible, Moran,” Jim says.

Sebastian braves a quick, small smile. “If you're at all inclined to punish me, Sir...”

Jim arches a brow elegantly and looks the bigger man up and down. “I have work to do.”

“Wouldn't a bit of stress relief make it easier to think clearly?” Seb asks with a cheeky half-smile.

Jim grimaces, but he starts disrobing anyway.

Afterwards, Sebastian sits up and looks at the pale man sleeping beside him. Even unconscious the little Irishman is strikingly magnetic.

Have a day off at Christmas? Sebastian hates the thought: it would mean a night without this. Watching the rise and fall of Jim's pallid ribs is all the gift Sebastian needs.


	13. Family

“It's Christmas, Jim, you're going to visit whether you want to or not.”

“Oh, that's the spirit of the season, is it?” the brunet retorted facetiously. 

“Good boys are supposed to get what they want, and compared to you, that's me every year!” Richard exclaimed.

Jim snorted. “Are you telling me you believe in Santa now? Because if you're regressing-”

“Mental problems or not, Jimmy, you're coming for Christmas!” Richard insisted.

“I-”

“You. Are. Coming. For. Christmas.”

“I don't even celebrate Christmas,” Jim protested.

“Not everything is about you, Jim,” Richard said. “You're coming.”

He hung up the phone.

Jim glanced sidelong at his lover Sebastian, whose face was carefully neutral. Letting out a long sigh, Jim dragged his knees up to his narrow chest on their plush couch. “...Fine,” Jim said.

Sebastian deliberately avoided eye contact and spread out an arm. Jim cast the bigger man a mildly suspicious look then darted into the space created. Sebastian said nothing about Jim burrowing into his warm side.

“I'm not going to be nice,” Jim warned sulkily.

Sebastian kept his lips poker straight. “I'm sure they don't expect you to be, love.”

Jim huffed into Sebastian's chest but made no rebuke. “If your brother starts getting all… affectionate… with mine I am leaving.”

“We can't have you being subjected to displays of affection,” Sebastian agreed evenly.

Jim simmered into the other man's bulk. “...I know you're making fun of me,” he complained at last.

“I am not that brave,” Sebastian said convincingly, but then he kissed the top of Jim's head.

“Going to make you into shoes,” Jim mumbled, but he tucked his head under Sebastian's chin.

Christmas came around and Jim and Sebastian made the trip to Richard's flat. The security stationed there did not look happy to be wearing Santa hats, but none of them were brave enough to refuse the identical twin of their terrifying employer.

Richard answered the door in a Christmas jumper worthy of Molly Hooper or Molly Weasley. He smiled in genuine pleasure when he say them both and welcomed them in quickly enough that Sebastian got the impression Richie was worried that Jim would change his fickle mind and bolt.

“I'm glad you came,” Richard said. He tried to take their coats and scarves but Jim thrust an expensive bottle of wine at his brother's chest and curtly demanded it was opened to breathe.

Richard nodded and retreated. Sebastian took Jim's coat, scarf and gloves and hung them up before seeing to his own.

Jim strode into the living room. The kitchen was separated by a glass door decorated with softly pulsing Christmas lights, and through the glass Richard and Severin could be seen.

Severin raised a palm in wary greeting, which Jim ignored until Sebastian poked him in the ribs from behind. Jim narrowed his eyes but nodded curtly at the other blond.

Richard brought through Jim's glass and set it on a coaster near his brother as Jim lowered himself resentfully onto a far-from-bespoke couch.

“Would you prefer beer?” Richard asked, glancing up at Sebastian. “Sev brought in a few he thought you'd like.”

Seb gave the man an encouraging smile. “Thanks,” he said warmly, before turning to Jim. “Is that okay, boss?”

Jim blinked. “It's Christmas,” he said in a neutral tone.

Sebastian chose to take that as permission and sidled past Richard into the kitchen.

Severin grinned at him from near the oven, but the skin around his mouth and eyes looked tight with nerves. “Just like old times, huh?” Sev joked.

Sebastian snorted. “At least family tensions were predictable. Jim's a fast little fucker.”

“Well, there's two of us,” Severin said, although he didn't sound entirely convinced that their combined bulk could restrain an especially irate Jim.

“So, beer?” Seb said with deliberate brightness.

“Figured we'd keep the strong stuff aside until we see how things go,” Severin said. He opened the fridge and let Sebastian see the options.

“Good idea. Wouldn't want to get silly and try to put Jim in a party hat, would we?” Seb said. He pulled out a cold beer and accepted the bottle opener his brother held out.

“Sebastian, what is taking so long?” Jim called. He sounded peeved. “Surely they all taste the same.”

The Moran brothers exchanged glances.

“Coming, boss,” Sebastian said brightly.

Jim grimaced at Seb's light tone but his body language unwound slightly as the blond settled beside him.

“Severin's just making some finishing touches to the food before he comes through,” Richard said.

Jim looked unusually surprised. “You're not cooking?”

“We made the meal together,” Richard said, “but Sev said he'd keep an eye on it so I can spend time with you.”

Jim's forehead wrinkled a little. “Oh,” he said.

“I imagine you do all of Jim's cooking, Sebastian?” Richard said.

Seb smiled, picturing how exasperating Jim could be by neither caring for nor having the attention span for something as pedestrian as food. The blond held up calloused sniper's fingers and waggled them. “All made by my fair hands.”

Richard smiled. “Severin says you lived abroad a lot growing up. He knows a lot of Eastern recipes.”

It was strange talking about his past with Jim razor wire tense at his side, but Seb nodded. “We spent a lot of our time in the kitchens out of the way of our parents when we were younger, and then we had to fend for ourselves at Scouts and in the forces, so we picked up a lot. If you're cooking for a lot of people it's pretty important to get it right.”

“I expect my brother's no different,” Richie said.

Jim pressed his lips together.

“I'd much prefer to have an entire angry squadron mad at me than to burn Jim's dinner,” Seb said.

Jim gave him a sidelong look and a tiny nod.

“I can empathise,” Richard said. “Moody old thing, aren't you, Jimmy?”

Jim raised his brows haughtily. “I have high standards,” he sniffed.

“So didn't you truly luck out having me as your twin?” Richie teased.

Jim glowered, but there was no real malice in it.

Sebastian knocked back some of his beer and wondered whether the entire night would feel awkward. Severin eventually came through and did his best to maintain small-talk. He kept the kitchen door opened and kept one ear towards it, supposedly to listen for the oven timer or the simmering veg boiling over early. Sebastian was certain that his brother was merely desperate for an escape from Jim's baleful stare.

Once they were sat down at the dinner table at least there was food to occupy themselves with, although Jim gave the Christmas crackers a long-suffering, somewhat spiteful look.

Richard forced his brother to pull one with him anyway. The Moran brothers marvelled at seeing Jim do something against his will, and very wisely decided to never ever mention it in the Irishman's hearing.

Richard was stubbornly himself, which was warm, bubbly and somewhat amusing. Jim did his best to ignore his brother's efforts, but was tolerant enough of them that Severin slowly relaxed a little. The blond joined in the steady chatter so far as it didn't directly involve Jim, and the couple constantly touched as they spoke. Prolonged touches as well, twining hands over the dinner table amidst the festive napkins and cracker streamers, not just the wary brushes Sebastian and Jim made with each other.

Sebastian did not know whether to feel unnerved or jealous by the easy way his brother and his lover's brother were with each other; their affection for each other was obvious and comfortably pronounced. The intimacy of spending Christmas with Jim's brother and hearing about different pieces of their past felt bittersweet as it became increasingly clear that the outward and spoken intimacies between Jim and Seb were so few.

Richard had noticed, and he quietly excused himself from the table. He returned not long after, so Sebastian wrote off the disappearance as a brief toilet break.

It was only when he and Jim were leaving that he noticed what Richard had done.

“You have to kiss under the mistletoe,” Richard insisted as Jim and Seb stood under the doorframe. “It's traditional.”

Jim's nose wrinkled. “You know I am hardly one for blindly following traditions.”

“Of course I do,” Richie said, “but I also know you are rarely slow to take what you want. Why wouldn't you want an excuse to kiss your boyfriend?”

Sebastian squirmed at the appalled face Jim made. “Sebby is not my _boyfriend_!” the brunet said in a scandalised tone.

“Oh? What do you call the man who sleeps in your bed and looks after you?” Richard asks tartly.

“My-” Jim casts each of them a glare, as though all were culpable for this insubordination. “My bodyguard!”

“Funny, I don't remember you bringing many of your bodyguards to Christmas dinner,” Richard said.

“I'm more important now,” Jim snapped.

“If you're so important you can't possibly care what others think,” Richie reasoned. “You should kiss your 'bodyguard' if you want to.”

Jim looked torn between fury and something less easy to define. “Sebastian!” he snapped. 

Seb looked down at the brunet obediently. He tried not to look hopeful.

“Take that down,” Jim ordered.

Sebastian swallowed but reached up and took down the sprig of mistletoe. He started to hand it back to Richard, but Jim snatched it away.

The brunet stormed down the staircase towards the street. Sebastian blinked and cast his surroundings a bewildered look. “Thanks for having us!” he blurted, then took off after Jim.

“What was that about?” Seb asked when he caught up with the Irishman. Jim silenced the bigger man with a look.

Once home, Jim toyed agitatedly with the mistletoe. “'Boyfriend' is such a ridiculous term,” he complained.

Sebastian looked at him.

“You're not a _boy_ to me,” Jim continued. “Look at the size of you – you are undeniably a man. Your stubble. Your shoulders.”

Seb found himself liking Jim's tone.

“And you're not my _friend_ ,” Jim continued in disgust.

Oh.

“You're far more important than a _friend_ ,” Jim snarled.

_Oh._

“Jim,” Sebastian said firmly.

The brunet looked up mid-rant.

“Give me that,” Seb demanded.

Jim looked oddly reluctant to give over the little bit of greenery, but he was curious enough about Sebastian's motivations to obey.

Sebastian took the mistletoe, sat down beside Jim, dragged the brunet none too gently onto his lap until their pelvises were flush, then held up the plant pointedly. “No one's looking,” Seb said.

Jim looked quite content with the manhandling, although he tried to hide the fact with a soft, unconvincing glower. “I don't care if anyone looks. It's just stupid,” he argued, but his mouth was close to Sebastian's chin.

“You think it's stupid to kiss me?” Seb asked.

“No,” Jim said firmly, and then his lips were very close to Sebastian's.

Seb had had enough waiting. He growled softly and curled his free hand tightly around Jim's lower back before snapping his mouth to Jim's. The smaller man made an indignant noise at having his lip nipped between Seb's teeth and reciprocated fiercely, pushing Sebastian back and kissing the bigger man _hard _.__

__Sebastian made a pleased voice and reached for Jim's clothing._ _

__Jim sat back suddenly. “This doesn't mean I'm going to wear a ridiculous jumper next year,” he insisted._ _

__Sebastian tried his best to catch up with the brunet's racing thoughts. “Incorporating a few Christmas traditions we like doesn't mean you have to stop being yourself?”_ _

__Jim nodded. “Good.” He frowned again. “You're not my boyfriend.”_ _

__“Partner,” Sebastian corrected calmly. “Now are you going to give me my present or am I going to have to unwrap you myself?”_ _

__Jim snorted. “You have been good, I suppose...” he mused. He picked up the slightly squashed mistletoe. “Come get me, tiger.”_ _


	14. Not A Creature Was Stirring

“Jim-boy?” Sebastian murmurs.

The infamous consulting criminal murmurs softly but does not rouse.

Seb risks coming close enough to be hit by any abruptly launched keyboards or other such devices. “Jim? It's late.”

Jim stays face down on the aforementioned keyboard.

“...Or early, I guess,” Sebastian adds.

Jim snuffles softly into the keys.

“C'mon, Jimmy, you can't sleep here,” Sebastian says. He bravely touches the smaller man lightly.

Jim ignores him. Sebastian prods a bit harder. “Jim?”

Jim makes a displeased, whiney noise.

“Jimmy, it's four in the fuckin' morning,” Seb finally said shortly. “You've been at that screen all day. _Get up_ : it's time for bed.”

Jim sighs. “Fuck off,” he murmurs. He tries to curl deeper into the keyboard and seems both confused and disheartened to discover this is not comfortable. He makes a childlike sound of questioning distress.

“Of course that's not comfortable, James, because it is not your bed,” Sebastian says. “I promise you will be much more comfortable when you're tucked in. I'll even let you put your nasty, ice-cold feet on me and you know how you like to do that.”

“Too tired for sleep!” Jim whines.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Do you need me to carry you? Again?”

“No,” Jim pouts in a voice that clearly means: yes.

Seb sighs but doesn't feel too put out at the excuse to touch a sleepy Jim without getting elbowed or bitten. “Come on then, sleepy kitten.”

Jim's face purses, but he is too sleepy for the wrinkles to sit deeply. “M'not a kitten. I can scratch you real good.”

“Well you hiss and spit as well don't you, like a grumpy little kitten,” Sebastian says. “Although if you do that tonight, I won't lift you up. Then what will you do?”

“This desk is wretchedly uncomfortable,” Jim complains.

“So you need to go to bed, don't you?” Seb says reasonably. “So may I pick my little kitten up nicely, or is he going to scratch.”

“You like it when I scratch,” Jim says.

“On the way to bed when not going to sleep,” Sebastian corrects.

“We could maybe not sleep,” Jim yawns.

“You're going to fucking sleep,” Seb insists. “This workaholic thing isn't cute.”

“You think I'm cute,” Jim argues. He frowns softly and shakes his head. “I'm not cute!”

“I'll think you very deadly and handsome if you wrap your arms around the back of my neck and let me take you through to bed,” Seb bargains.

Jim nods and reaches for the bigger man. He glowers into Sebastian's neck and repeats, “I'm not a kitten.”

“Lord give me strength,” said Sebastian, although he doesn't sound at all put upon. “Why's that, my little shadow king?”

Jim raises his brows like he thinks he is being humoured. “Because you're a tiger! A kitten can't own a tiger!”

Seb dares roll his own eyes since he cannot be seen. “I'm much bigger than you though. So big you couldn't be a tiger cub.”

“I'm not little!” Jim snaps.

Sebastian hushes the brunet. “Hey, don't you know that elephants are afraid of little mice? Maybe kittens strike fear into big, sexy tigers.”

Jim seems skeptical but is blessedly quiet for the short period of time it takes Sebastian to carry Jim to their bedroom. Seb lowers his lover onto the bed and helps remove the outer clothing that Jimmy's fingers are much too sleepy to unbutton.

“Tiger?” Jim says as the big blond encourages him to scoot under the duvet.

Sebastian climbs in after the little Irishman and curls protectively around him. “Hmm?”

“I don't want to be a mouse.”

Seb gently kisses Jim's ear, cheek and shoulder. “That's okay, Jimmy, if you get some sleep you can be a kitten.”

“I'm going to dream that I'm a magpie,” Jim decides. “They get to steal _and_ fly.”

“A magpie could probably own a tiger,” Sebastian says wisely. “Goodnight, love.”

“Tiger?” Jim yawns.

“Sleep, Jim-boy,” Seb murmurs.

“I'm going to,” Jim pouts. “But first you've got to listen.”

“I always listen,” Sebastian says wryly.

“I love you, tiger,” Jim says seriously. “Goodnight.”

Seb inhales deeply at the base of Jim's scalp. “I love you too, my little pest.”

“You won't be taller than me if I make you sleep on the floor,” Jim responds drowsily.

“Then who'll keep your feet warm?” Seb points out.

“Maybe I could catch a real tiger,” Jim mumbles.

“I don't think a real tiger would be as easy to tame,” Sebastian says.

“Neither are you,” Jim whispers dreamily. Seb almost scoffs, but then Jim says in a voice slurred with the closeness of sleep, “I still can't get you to get on one knee.”

“What was that?” Sebastian blurts.

Jim is asleep.

Sebastian stays awake for hours.


	15. Midnight

“That's no way to treat that car, young man.”

Sebastian looks out of the window at the straightbacked, elderly woman standing smoking alone. Her fur coat is turned up at the collar to protect her from the biting cold and it somewhat masks her face, which is otherwise cast in odd shadows by light and age.

She does not have an old money accent, and something about her seems rougish. Sebastian gets a good feeling about the woman. “My partner swaps them over too often for me to ever have them complain much,” he says. “And what's the point of a fast car if you can't run it hard?”

She chuckles disparagingly. “Oh my dear boy, a car like that is _made_ for going fast, but not for treating her _roughly_.”

Sebastian has certificates in advanced evasive driving from his stints as official personal protection. Still, she probably has a point about the way his engines tend to scream more than they purr. “I've not got much of a gentle touch,” he says.

She tisks. “Youth of today – everything's disposable. A car like her was built to last. I bet when she was built no one touching her thought she would ever not be carefully taken care of.”

Sebastian has taken care of many things, both sordid and illicit, but classic cars are not one of them. He leans over the open window; he had lowered it to have a cigarette of his own, but hadn't gotten that far. “So what does your chauffeur drive then?”

The woman scoffs. “At my age, dear, I need all the pleasure I can get, and that does _not_ involve having a man drive my car.” She took a draw and then exhaled calmly. “I drive an Aston Martin V8.”

Sebastian smiled. His partner had bought a few of those over the years. “What type?”

“A Vantage S,” she said. She took another draw and gave a half smirk. “A red one,” she added.

Sebastian was about to launch into a conversation about that – because he might not be kind to his cars but he did have a lot of experience with them- when two women came down the steps of the grand house towards them.

The woman turned calmly. “Ah, hello Anthea. And Chris, was it?”

Sebastian leant against the steering wheel as the two women came into contact with his headlights. Anthea looked to be about his age; he didn't quite recognise her despite being brought up to know all of his peers with suitable bloodlines, but she did resemble a girl he vaguely remembered being called Andrea, so maybe the pair were related. Chris, of course, he knew rather well. Older than him, and still every inch his equally rebellious older sister, she seemed to be having trouble standing upright or keeping her hands off of Anthea.

She winked at the older woman. “Wotcher, Martha. Don't stay too long; you are far too much fun to be stuck in here.”

Martha laughed softly. “Yes, well, one must be seen to keep up appearances.”

Chris guffawed. “As you can see, I am perfectly managing to keep up my impeccable reputation as a rake and a parental disappointment.” She dipped an unsuspecting Anthea low before kissing her playfully.

Anthea did not seem to mind, but she batted at the blonde half-heartedly. “Behave. My employer is inside.”

“Oh, boring old Mikey knows you need to have a little fun. Being near that man is stressful.”

Martha made a noise of agreement. “That boy needs a hobby other than the government. Or meddling.”

“He needs a bop on the nose,” Chris said, to which Anthea laughed and shushed her. The way Sebastian's headlights caught the sequins of Chris' dress made it quite clear that Anthea had furtively squeezed Chris' bottom as she spoke.

Sebastian hangs his head out of the car. “Are you coming, letch, or are you going home with your girlfriend?”

“My girlfriend has work in the morning,” Chris says faux glumly, “with that ever-so-uptight Mycroft Holmes. What a prat.”

Martha chuckles. “He just needs a firm word, dear. Men can be rather foolish creatures, for all they think themselves terribly clever.”

“I've never really liked men,” Chris confided loudly. She points at Sebastian. “Except for you. This is my brother, Basher. He's alright. Works far too much and not as naughty as he used to be, but still rather good fun.”

Sebastian finds Martha looking at him thoughtfully. “Basher Moran, eh?” she says.

He's not sure how to respond to that look. Chris might drink and womanise but she hold a respectful enough job for the government. Her cover as an agent had been blown years ago, so her current occupation was a bit of an open secret, but on the whole she wasn't entirely a disgrace to the Moran name.

Sebastian, however, was dishonorably discharged from service in the armed forces, which was near unheard of for an officer of his former standing. That didn't sting as much as it used to, but-

“Your partner's rather a lonely man, isn't he?” Martha said.

Sebastian did not expect that.

Before he can gather his wits enough to respond, the old woman continues, “I've another of those clever little fools at home. If your James can promise to play relatively nicely with Mycroft's younger brother, then just give me a call.”

Sebastian's heart races. Sherlock Holmes' landlady. In the poor lighting it was hard to-

“And come along yourself, dear,” Mrs Martha Hudson added. “I can show you how much better a properly cared for old girl handles.”

Sebastian isn't certain whether she means her Aston Martin. He has the feeling that her file said something about a history as an exotic dancer before being a cartel runner's wife.

He nods dazedly and does not ask for her number. He's sure Jim Moriarty will delight in getting it.

Chris staggers towards the car. “Just as well you don't care about your cars,” she confides, “'cause I am pretty sure I am gonna need to be sick before you get me home.”

Sebastian snorts and shakes off his stupour. “What else is new? Please try to aim for outside of the window and not in the vague direction of your handbag this time.”

She waves at him dismissively, then exaggeratedly at Andrea. “Bye baby, don't be too sad without me! Or be terribly sad and take it out on Myc. You do you, my love!”

Andrea rolls her eyes, but there is a ghost of a smile threatening to twitch her lips. “It's after midnight, Chrissy; won't you turn into a pumpkin?”

Chris snickers and slurs something salacious that has the other civil servant stifling a broad, warm-eyed smile.

The blonde then turns and winks drunkenly as she grins at Martha. “Bye bye dollface – maybe you'll persuade my good lady friend to get up to mischief tonight!”

Mrs Hudson's eyes twinkle, and Sebastian gets the feeling Mycroft Holmes is not going to have an easy twentyfour hours.


	16. Baby Please Come Home

“Exactly what are you hoping to gain by this excessive voyeurism?”

Jim startled and looked up, annoyed, at the tall woman standing before him. Before he had even reached her far too knowing eyes his own were already dragging him back to the live footage he had been viewing.

Jamie Moriarty snatched her brother's chin lightly and lifted it. “ _Jim._ ”

He yanked back from the appallingly audacious touch, but other than swiping Jamie's arm away fiercely Jim was uncharacteristically forgiving about the action. Jim wasn't really there with her, he was immersed soul-deep in the happenings of the covert camera footage and had been for days.

“Neither of you have eaten or slept in days, and it's been much longer since either of those acts were committed in sufficient quantities,” Jamie said.

Jim said nothing.

“Perhaps I should have him picked up and force-fed,” Jamie said. “Perhaps then you'd eat.”

Jim's response was a ferocious bark, “You'll leave him well alone!”

“Oh, so he's _supposed_ to be suff-”

“No!” Jim exploded. He quietened at once and returned with meek shoulders to the screens. His eyes were intense as they fixed a sad, confused, entirely lost gaze on the figure within.

Sebastian Moran had seemingly quite lost all interest in life after the events of Reichenback. Jim could not understand it; he had left the man in control of _everything_ back in London and beyond. All that power, all those riches, all that work…

Sebastian Moran was pissing it all away.

Everything Jim had built, he had gifted to his loyal and fantastically skillful second-in-command, only for the moron to inexplicably reject it all.

It wasn't that Bastian was incompetent, anything but. It almost seemed like spite, the way the golden-haired oaf seemed intent on brawling or boozing his way into an unmarked grave and taking Jim's empire along with him.

What did the ungrateful thug have to be salty about? Jim had had Sebastian inherit _everything_ …

Jim thought he loved puzzles, but this one made no sense to him. He could not understand why it scored his mind blank and ate away at him every moment.

“Either stop spying on the poor man,” Jamie said, receiving and ignoring a furiously black look from her brother, “or you go home to him.”

“I can't go home to him,” Jim snapped. “I'm supposed to be dead, remember?”

Jamie gazed at his skeletal self. “You can't keep haunting him, or he'll never heal.”

“He doesn't know I'm watching!” Jim exclaimed. “And he doesn't have anything to heal _from_ ,” he added as an afterthought.

Jamie directed her gaze distastefully towards the screens. “He doesn't think he has anything left to heal _for_.”

“What could he possibly have to be upset about?” Jim yowled. “The only thing he lost was me!”

Jamie stared at her brother hard.

“No,” Jim said. “No. No, he didn't. He wouldn't be so _stupid_ , I… _How could he_? I treat him abysmally – I _am_ abysmal!”

“No arguments there,” Jamie muttered, “but the fact remains… All evidence points to the poor fool being brokenhearted.”

Jim physically flinched at the word. Stiffly he repeated, “He could not possibly-”

“If you don't go to him soon, you won't have anything left to watch!” Jamie warned.

Jim swallowed. “What would I _say_?”

Jamie scoffed. “ _Did you miss me_?”


	17. Wonder

Jim does not know when he starts to mean it.

He's always been a flippant, flamboyant, facetious little flirt. He enjoys irritating people; the more powerful the person, the more he enjoys having become threatening enough to bait them as he pleases.

His bodyguard, Moran, is enticing to bait. The man is enormous, more muscle than man, and exquisitely infamously deadly – so much so that it was only natural that Jim found the brute a place on his staff. Moran has a temper, the scars on his fists and face scream it, but the big blond knows better than to even raise his voice to Mr Jim Moriarty.

...Mostly.

Moran's legendary temper fascinates Jim, but despite how much he tries to needle the gigantic man, Moran rarely bites.

Jim has done research on the man (of course he has). Moran was born to privilege -the son of a Lord – and educated at Eton and Oxford. That type is normally fun to torment, especially given Jim's own upbringing, but Moran had a peculiar hatred for his own kind.

Moran seemed to carry a lot of anger, and a total distaste for authority. He had gone through officer training after Oxford, and had somehow survived a great deal of disciplinary actions to rise to the rank of Colonel. Moran has an astute tactician's mind, but the more removed from his men and the action, the less inclined he had been to hang his head whenever his rebellious nature got him in trouble.

Oddly, Moran seemed a lot more capable of holding his tongue and doing as told now that he was in Jim's employ. Perhaps it was the threat of what happened to people who displeased Moriarty, but Jim did not think that was all it was; Moran had a bit of a death-wish, and did not seem to be deterred by the possibility of an ugly demise.

Seemed quite drawn to it, in fact, given all the dangerous endeavours he volunteered for.

Jim had told Moran in no uncertain terms that whilst the man would undoubtedly perish in a tortured fashion for any failure, Moran had best _not_ fail or die, because Jim only accepted the best and Moran was currently that.

Moran's face had twitched oddly in response, almost as though he might _smile_ , and in his cool, gruff voice assured Jim that his life and talents were his as long as Moriarty could make use of them.

Jim had narrowed his eyes at Moran – certain there was some joke he was not getting. And wasn't _that_ the exasperating, addicting thing about Moran: Jim just did not understand him. Oh, he understood plenty of the man, people were predictable, but there was something mysteriously vexing and hypnotic about Moran.

Jim liked the man's company. He found it soothing, and not just in that the safest place in the world to be is in deadly Moran's protective care. Moran was… amusing. Interesting. Entertaining. Odd. A puzzle.

Not for the first time, Jim wondered about that almost-smile, and why so often the corners of his own mouth start to ache in response.


	18. Exhausted

Jim Moriarty prided himself upon knowing people and their most innermost desires. It was powerful, to know those things. It was a tool for infinite manipulation, and oh, how he liked to play.

He used it for work too. Utilising other peoples wants, and by contrast their fears, Jim could make people do whatever he wanted. Sometimes they tried to fight it, but few people were ever more than a handful of chess moves away from being at his mercy, and he had so little of that.

Jim Moriarty had instead anything that money could buy, if he had the whim to obtain it. There were, however, some things that were not so easily bought, and that he refused to admit even to himself that he wanted.

He was good at understanding _other_ people's innermost desires; his own in contrast repulsed, embarrassed and rather frightened him.

Jim squashed those down and distracted himself by other means. Work could occupy his every moment if he so chose, and he did. 

Whispers of a disgraced young colonel with an uncanny ability for shooting caught Jim's attention and he stalked the fascinating beast. Sebastian Moran (the now disowned son of Lord Augustus Moran) was making a killing as a gun for hire, and Jim did always want the best.

Hiring Moran was only logical, and Jim found an enjoyable interest in Moran's ability to be talented not only at killing people, but at preventing them from being killed. Jim in particular.

Moran found himself on Jim's own personal protection team, and before long, Moran was Jim's live-in bodyguard. They spent an uncharacteristic time together (Jim rarely kept men long before being bored or being forced to replace those which expired) and Jim grew accustomed to having Moran around.

Jim did not know why (and he was loathe to examine his reasoning) but he began taking to buying Moran trinkets. At first they were practical – various guns and weapons to improve Moran's ability to do his job, not that he needed them- but as the years went on, they became… less easy to explain away.

More frustrating still, was that the harder Jim tried to present Moran with the perfect gift, the less pleased Moran seemed to be.

Jim just did not understand it! The fact frustrated and infuriated him. Were his talents failing him?

What was so special about Se- about Moran anyway?

The more Jim continued to try, the harder he seemed to continue to fail. Moran appeared bemused and increasingly – how _dare_ the ungrateful brute?- _frustrated_ with the attempts.

Jim was becoming frantic. He had exhausted all avenues. What else could Moran possibly _want_?

It came to a head when Jim screamed the question at Moran, emotionally and quite, quite loudly.

Moran looked, quite shockingly, like he wanted to flatten Jim. “What do I _want_?” he responded. “How about you stop trying to buy my loyalty? _I'd never betray you_.”

“I'm not trying to buy your loyalty!” Jim snapped.

Sebastian blinked. “Then what the hell have you been trying to do all this time?”

 _Trying_. As in: _not succeeding to do_. Jim had never failed at this sort of thing in a damned long time. He curled his fingers around his grimacing face and took a deep breath.

“I've been _trying_ to make you happy,” Jim hissed.

Sebastian Moran had the gall to stare. “Is _that_ what you've been trying to do?” he said blankly. Jim wanted to kill him.

“Why?” Moran asked.

“ _Why_?” Jim snarled. He rubbed his temples irately. “...I don't know,” he muttered.

“But you know everything,” Moran said.

“Not about you!” Jim said. “I evidently cannot determine what you _want_!”

Moran snorted. It was an oddly bleak noise. “Do you really want to know?” he asked.

Jim almost screamed in response. “YES!”

Sebastian Moran became even more enormous as he took a long, deep, breath, and Jim almost died with the anticipation of finally knowing the answer to the riddle of what Moran wanted.

Jim felt shock as Moran snatched at his tie and hefted him right off of his toes. Jim opened his mouth to protest, and… and then…

Sebastian Moran kissed him.

Sebastian gave him what they both wanted.


	19. Escape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is stronger language in this one, and non-explicit mentions of kink and blood. Nothing terribly scandalous, but just a heads up since so far this had been fairly PG-13.

The sound of Jim's distress is enough to immediately put Sebastian on high alert. 

The consulting criminal had sent Seb out on pointless errands which Sebastian had finished far quicker than expected; the blond had arrived home early and the security system had seemed just fine. Sebastian had casually hung up his jacket and was about to put away the groceries when he heard it: Jim's noise of pain.

Sebastian immediately reassessed his surroundings and the location of the sound. He had drawn his handgun and was creeping towards said location when-

“ _Argh_ , fuck, Irene!”

...What?

Jim's voice sounded distressed, but not… Not the bad sort of tortured. Not exactly.

Sebastian pushed down the sudden flare of hurt jealousy. Jim and Irene had… _bickered_ after the Holmes fiasco, but Jim had clearly liked the woman enough to allow her to live.

Apparently Jim liked Irene more than Seb had credited.

Sebastian reluctantly supposed it made sense: Jim's passion for their own relationship was certainly… volatile.

“Ow! Jesus _wept_ , you bitch!”

Sebastian stands impotently outside the closed door. His forehead wrinkles as he is not certain what he ought do.

He wasn't supposed to be home yet.

Jim never said they were monogamous. He'd just… insisted that Sebastian was now exclusively his, and Sebastian had just kind of… _assumed_ that that went both ways.

“Fucking! Hell!”

Evidently not.

Sebastian was rather glad that Jim had decided not to do… whatever was happening beyond the door… in _their_ bedroom. Still, it…

“Fuuuuck! Watch the goods, you cunt!”

Sebastian wasn't sure if it was a comfort that Jim wasn't having an entirely fun time of it.

For the first time Irene's voice pierced the atmosphere. She sounded amused, in a detached-yet-sensual sort of way. There was something off about the tone, but Sebastian couldn't tell what.

“As charming as you are, James, I still haven't heard your safe word.”

“Fuck you,” Jim muttered, just loudly enough to be audible. He sounded as petulant as ever, if a little breathless.

It really fucking bothered Seb that Jim hadn't once wanted to do… this sort of stuff… with _him_. Whyever _not_?

“Well if you're just going to be bratty, James, I can always leave,” Irene purred. She still sounded amused.

“You'll do no such thing,” Jim insisted. “ _Where are you going_?”

Sebastian didn't have much time to react before Irene moved to the door, with an explanation of, “You're getting blood everywhere, you messy boy. I'm going to fetch you a towel.”

“Not my good ones this time,” Jim snapped, and then Irene opened the door. Sebastian hadn't heard her telltale clack of heels to better advise him of her approach, and he had only managed to move out of the blood circle, not sight range.

Irene blinked at him, then had the audacity to simply curl up her shaped brow. “Well hello again, darling,” she said.

“Bastian?” Jim said in a small voice. Seb watched the small man turn white and immediately reach for rather heavy duty and expensive looking bonds. As Irene had said, Jim was indeed bleeding.

Sebastian wondered whether this had happened before. He didn't remember ever seeing unexplained injuries on Jim… but Jim did sometimes send him far away on business.

“Fucking help me with these, will you?” Jim spat to Irene. “ _Cinderella_.”

Irene immediately turned back and moved to accommodate Jim's request. She was bare-footed and not dressed in anything explicitly sexual, but Seb's stomach made an uncomfortable little jump at recognising the shirt she was dressed in as one of _his_.

Sebastian was not sure what to say.

Jim snatched away his limbs once Irene had freed them and scrambled towards Sebastian. The Irishman's limbs didn't seem entirely under his own command, and the thought of anything _not_ being unnerved Seb more than anything.

“Bastian,” Jim said. He was still breathless, and looked decadently rumpled and bloodied. Like he sometimes did when he picked a fight with Sebastian before sex.

Sebastian pressed his lips together uncomfortably. “I finished the errands you set early,” he mumbled.

Jim wiped blood from his face, looking quite appalled, and… somewhat embarrassed. Perhaps he ought be, with a safe word like _Cinderella_. “I didn't expect you,” he said mildly.

Sebastian swallowed. “Should I go back out?” he asked.

“What?” Jim blurted. Sebastian had never seen the man look confused before.

“I'll go get that towel,” Irene said, “and let you boys talk.”

“You don't go anywhere,” Jim told Sebastian, sounding a bit more like himself. “Come in.”

Sebastian reluctantly passed Irene and stepped into the spare bedroom. He felt ill at ease and oddly embarrassed: Jim hadn't saw fit to want this with _him_.

“Sit down,” Jim said.

Sebastian did so without question. Jim hovered for a moment, then joined him on the bed. He was clothed from the waist down and didn't seem to have much problem with sitting, but his back and face were a bruised and bloodied mess.

“How were you going to explain your face?” Sebastian asked.

“Just because I'm pale doesn't mean I bruise easily,” Jim said quietly. “A bit of make-up is usually sufficient.”

“Have you done this.. often?” Seb asked. His stomach tightened.

“Not often,” Jim said quietly. “Just sometimes… when my mind gets too… busy.”

“Does it help?” Sebastian asked.

“A little,” Jim admitted.

Seb pursed his lips. “I didn't know that you liked-”

“Women? I don't,” Jim said. “It's purely-”

“Being hit,” Sebastian said. “I didn't know.”

Jim actually squirmed. “Yes, well, I was hardly going to tell you, was I?” he mumbled.

Seb felt his insides twist. “Why _not_?”

Jim looked at him peculiarly. “Would you honestly still respect me if-”

“It's called switching, James, and it's perfectly common,” Irene interrupted as she returned with the towel.

Sebastian covered his mouth with his hand. “Let me get this straight,” he said. “You didn't tell me that you like this stuff, and do it behind my back, because you didn't think I'd still respect you enough to let you do this stuff to me?”

Jim gave him a very odd look indeed, practically vulnerable, and gave a feeble nod.

“Right,” Sebastian said. He took a deep breath. “And if you're not into women, why is Irene wearing _my_ shirt?”

“He likes how you smell, apparently,” Irene said. “Plucked it from your dirty laundry; smells soothing, he says.”

“Shut up!” Jim hissed, cheeks flaming.

Irene shrugged. “Don't blame me when you're the one who refuses to communicate.”

Seb was uncertain whether he felt comforted. “So… Would you like… for… you know..? Me to maybe do this stuff in the future, to you?”

Jim's cheeks stayed pink. He dropped his gaze and nodded. “Might.”

“Tell him the truth,” Irene said in a surprisingly commanding voice.

Jim squirmed again, shot the woman a glare, then softened his gaze for Sebastian. “I think so, if… If you wanted to,” Jim muttered.

“If _you_ want to,” Seb said. He gave a gently teasing smile. “I can't say I've never wanted to get my own back. Or give you a good slap when you're being difficult.”

Jim's face shot up. “You can't do it just whenever you like, work would-”

Sebastian put his hand on Jim's thigh. “Only what you want. I want to make you happy.”

Jim bit his lip. “You'd be my escape?” he asked.

“Always,” Seb agreed.

Irene threw the towel at Jim's face. “Technically, the time of this session isn't up,” she said. “If you wanted to continue...” She gave Sebastian a pointed look.

“What do you want to do?” Seb asked Jim.

Jim brought the towel to the lower half of his face, ears flushed pink, and his dark eyes glittered with possibilities.


	20. Christmas Present

Jim's voice was dry when he finally spoke, but there was a whiff of amusement about him that rankled Sebastian's nerves.

“You're jealous,” Jim said.

“What've I got to be jealous about?” Sebastian said sourly.

Jim's eyes glittered. “Why, indeed?”

Sebastian glowered and rose to move past the annoying, little man. “I'll leave the difficult questions to the resident genius, shall I?”

Jim chuckled, and as Sebastian turned a warning glare on the ferret-faced little runt Jim had the audacity to _cackle_.

“Oh, Basher!” Jim guffawed, “That is an _excellent_ look for you! Wonderfully hateful. You must start using that face at work.”

Sebastian narrowed his eyes and tried to slink his considerable bulk past Jim's frame.

Jim was having none of it, and caught Sebastian's clothing in a vice-like grip. Sebastian was sorely tempted to break the hold and put his pushy little principal on his over-entitled little arse, but the bodyguard had more regard for continuing to have all of his appendages intact than to do so. Just.

“Now don't be shy,” Jim said in a voice that was dangerous in its mildness. “You have not been dismissed, have you, Moran?”

Sebastian swallowed.

“Now, let's get to the bottom of this,” Jim commanded. He waved his arm towards the sofa and released the bigger man only to give Sebastian a hard push in the direction of it. “ _Do take a seat_.”

Sebastian swallowed a growl and rubbed the forming bruise just beneath his sternum. He stalked over to the sofa and dropped onto it stiffly.

“Oh, do stop your sulking, Bash,” Jim said. “Daddy would hate to have to scold you this close to Christmas.”

Sebastian dared roll his eyes crossly and grit his teeth. It was downright disrespectful, the way the little Irish prick dared to belittle him as if Sebastian's good will wasn't the only thing keeping the undeserving tiny bastard alive.

Jim slapped Sebastian's cheek smartly. “I said to behave yourself,” Jim warned. His fingertips lingered almost lovingly against Sebastian's skin, but the Irishman's low growl was enough to make Sebastian dip his gaze even as his lips pressed together tightly.

Jim tutted. “It's not like you to be this naughty. I thought you were reasonably housebroken by now...”

Sebastian raised fiery blue eyes towards the man standing before him.

“Ah,” Jim warned. He tapped a finger lightly on Sebastian's nose and it was all that the blond could do not to snatch and crush that pale hand. “Daddy's warned you about your tantrums already, darling. Right now we're going to talk about your _feelings _.”__

__Sebastian heaved a sigh that did not calm him at all. “Boss,” he said tightly, “that really isn't in my job description.”_ _

__Jim took Sebastian's cheek between thumb and forefinger and shook it. “I – guess – that – must – be – a perk – of being – the – boss' – favourite.”_ _

__Sebastian's gaze flickered, and he forgot to be annoyed. He pushed Jim's hand aside lightly. “Don't,” the blond said._ _

__Jim tilted up Sebastian's chin. “Since when do you tell _me_ what to do, handsome?”_ _

__Sebastian swallowed. He looked away._ _

__Jim held the bodyguard's square jaw tightly. “I said you were jealous,” Jim said. “Getting all grumpy only proves that I'm right.”_ _

__“I'm not jealous,” Sebastian snapped unconvincingly. He scowled at the sound of his own voice and added in a mutter, “What've I got to be jealous _about_?”_ _

__Jim sat down in Sebastian's lap. Part of the blond didn't dare push the smaller man away, and part of Sebastian didn't want to._ _

__“You're jealous of my new games with the Holmes',” Jim said. Sebastian's jaw tightened._ _

__“It's terribly stupid of you,” Jim added. Sebastian considered strangling the man._ _

__“My agreeing to be my dear old friend Euros' Christmas present makes me in no way any less yours,” Jim announced. Sebastian froze._ _

__Jim gripped either side of Sebastian's face. “More importantly, my dear brute, you are in entirety _mine alone_ , and as charming as your little bout of jealousy is, Sebastian, you had best remember your place.”_ _

__Sebastian swallowed. “I've been trying,” he said quietly._ _

__Jim wrinkled his nose and pretended to misunderstand. “You certainly have been,” he admonished._ _

__“Sorry boss,” Sebastian muttered. He wasn't sure why he conceded._ _

__Jim looked at him. “Were you even listening to me?”_ _

__Sebastian frowned. Whatever retort was forming on his tongue melted away at the look the Irishman gave him._ _

__“I said: I'm yours,” Jim said soberly._ _

__Sebastian's lip most certainly did not wobble. “I didn't know if I was allowed to acknowledge that,” he said quietly._ _

__Jim stood and patted Sebastian's cheek again. This time the blond found that he did not mind it._ _

__“Bedroom, Bash,” Jim said. “I'll show you how much we belong to each other.”_ _

__Sebastian rose to his feet and immediately let himself be herded out of the living area. “Boss?”_ _

__Jim was already shedding his suit jacket. He arched his brow at Sebastian questioningly._ _

__Sebastian gave a crooked grin. “What's a bloke got to do to get you giftwrapped in a bow for me?”_ _


	21. Winter

It was cold and Sebastian hadn't heard the clack-clack-clacking of Jim's keyboard for at least an hour. He supposed if Jim had been on his phone for that long the overworked device would keep that Irishman's bony little fingers warm.

Sebastian switched on the heating and went looking for his consulting criminal.

Jim was not using any electronics at all, and the sight was an odd one. Light filtered in from a bulletproof window laced with frost crystals, and Jim looked eerily cosy and domestic.

“What are you doing?” Sebastian asked.

Jim glanced up from over the spine of an aged first edition book. “What does it look like I'm doing? I'm reading.”

Sebastian's nostrils flared. “I gathered that much,” the blond said. “What are you reading?”

Jim held up the book so that the fragile spine was visible: 'Nye Eventyr.'

Sebastian stared drolly at the man.

Jim sighed. “It's Danish. Hans Christian Anderson's 'New Fairy Tales'.”

Sebastian cocked his head. “That's the guy who wrote 'The Little Mermaid', right?”

“Correct,” Jim said. “Complete with suicidal ending as entirely ignored by Disney. He is also responsible for one of my most favourite stories.”

Sebastian comes closer and looks over Jim's shoulder. He inhales the scent of the Irishman's hair products and says, “I'm listening.”

“Snedronningen,” Jim said. “The Snow Queen.”

Sebastian considered. “She had a mirror, right? Oh no wait, maybe I'm thinking of Snow White: who is the fairest of them all? And all that.”

“No, you were right the first time,” Jim said. “There was a mirror which fractured, and the shards-”

“There was reindeer,” Sebastian blurted.

Jim smiled despite the interruption. “Yes, and the mirror shards went everywhere; they altered a boy's emotions. The mirror had been made to reflect and exaggerate all that was ugly in the word, and was shattered being taken to heaven to show the angels their failings, so when the mirror pierced the boy he was shown the world to be ugly. He met the Snow Queen, who alone with her snowflakes were the only beauty he could still recognise. Her first kiss protected him from the cold; her second dissolved the memories of his former loved ones; a third would kill him.”

“She's hypothermia,” Sebastian said.

Jim looked at the blond and smiled softly. “Perhaps. Your reindeer doesn't come into the story until the boy's dear childhood friend has travelled far to find him, and is caught by a gang of robbers. She meets Bae there, and he eventually helps her find the boy.”

“He'd been trying to fix the mirror,” Sebastian said.

“Yes!” Jim said. “If he can use the shards to spell out a magic word, he can go home, but why would he want to? The world outside is ugly to him.”

“And he rejects the girl,” said Sebastian. “When she comes to rescue him.”

“He does, which makes her weep tears hot enough to melt the shard in his heart,” Jim said, “and then he cries away the shard in his eye. After that, the pair dance in such glee amongst the puzzle shards that they magically manage to spell the word required for him to go home.”

“I wouldn't have wanted to go home,” Sebastian said.

“Me either,” Jim said frankly. He is wearing funny little gloves, and he traces an illustration lightly with a ghostly white finger.

“I suppose by then Death and The Maiden had stopped being in vogue,” Sebastian said.

“Youth and Death have gone hand in hand for long before the Renaissance,” Jim said. “Look at Persephone.”

Sebastian grinned. “I liked mythology. Lots of quests and bravery and wit.”

“You've never told me your favourite fairy story,” Jim said.

“I didn't stay still enough for fairy tales when I was small,” Sebastian admitted. “I only studied a bit of mythology afterwards.”

Jim arches a brow at the bigger man. “You studied literature and yet you didn't fall in love with fairytales? No fables, no escapism?”

“I liked stories about dangerous men,” Sebastian mused. “Especially if they were brave or cunning. But I liked real men better than imaginary ones.”

Jim closed his antique book carefully and put it aside. “Such as who?”

Sebastian thought for a moment, then sat down besides Jim. “There was a sniper,” the big man said, and Jim smiled softly. “He would pack his mouth full of snow, so that his breath wouldn't turn to clouds in the cold and give away his position. People use his techniques to this day, and he was known for being exceptionally skilled at what he did; staying out in the snow for ridiculous lengths of time just annihilating his enemies.”

Jim's eyes were half-lidded and his smile wide. “I dread to think what you'd have been like if you'd taken a notion for fairytales as a child.”

“The hero usually ended up with a wife,” Sebastian said. “I just wanted an adventure. Or honour, if I was feeling moony.”

Jim snapped off his gloves and curled into Sebastian. “Do I give you enough of that, my brave, deadly boy?”

“What's a deadlier treasure than you?” Sebastian asked, and he leaned down and took Jim's pale jaw for a fierce kiss.


	22. Miracle

Sebastian does not know if he can ever forgive Jim for pretending to splatter his brains on the rooftop of St Bart's hospital. It seems that forgiving Jim may require an even bigger miracle than that of the extroverted little Irishman not actually being dead.

When Jim first deigned to come back Sebastian had thought it was a hallucination borne of grief and the subsequent bender he had been on for a then-indeterminate period of time thereafter. Sebastian's predilection for hard drinking had meant regularly knocking back enough to kill a baby elephant in the hopes of numbing some of the empty aching void Jim had left, and given that Sebastian had quite lost track of eating or sleeping with any regularity… Hallucinations seemed like an expected part of the raw deal.

Sebastian had been wrong about Jim, again, when the pasty bastard saw fit to prove he was not, in fact, an echo of Sebastian's addled and traumatised mind.

Sebastian had punched Jim square in the nose, and that possibly wasn't a healthy response, but it also wasn't a full-force blow to the throat, jaw, teeth or temple, so that probably said all that needed to be said about Sebastian not actually wanting Jim dead. Likewise when Sebastian thereafter punched Jim sorely in the gut, the fact that none of Jim's internal organs ruptured was further testament to Sebastian's self-restraint and pitiful affection.

Jim was certifiably a clever man, but he didn't seem to fully appreciate those two undeniable pieces of evidence if his sulking about his subsequent -fully deserved- bruises was any indication.

Sebastian wasn't much of one for crying, grief notwithstanding, but he had, at length, when Jim came home. Jim had cried a bit too, and not even mockingly, which was a new and far from comprehendible development.

Sebastian had fucked the rotten little genius' questionable brains out, then had refused to let the villainous prick touch him thereafter. Sebastian's emotions were a mess, and so was the rest of him. His once exceptional body was withered and soft and dehydrated and Sebastian blamed Jim for this entirely. Jim didn't deserve his body, and after the initial moment of weakness of welcoming the little devil back into his life, Sebastian had discovered an uneasiness in his skin and surroundings that was soothed only by a lot of time working out and stoutly ignoring Jim in their own home.

Jim seemed thoroughly perplexed by these new proceedings, given as he was to always receiving whatever he wanted whenever he wanted it, particularly in Sebastian's case. The Irishman had taken up residence in Sebastian's old bedroom, as the master bedroom was seemingly now Sebastian's sole territory, and the blond even went to the effort one day of rearranging all of the living room furniture as though to prove to them both that the place was now Sebastian's, not Jim's, and Jim could accept it or fuck off.

Jim was also expected to accept the fact that Sebastian had hauled the door off of the office and smashed up all of Jim's machines. Rather than order anything new like he did any time he himself destroyed devices in a fit of pique or frustration, Jim had taken to fixing up all of the broken pieces as best as he could. Whether it was cathartic or a form of penance, it filled the time Sebastian spent out running or boxing or just… being out.

Eventually Jim had stopped moving as though the bruising Sebastian had left on his stomach (and everywhere else, that one night that they'd fucked) still hurt. No one had bothered to reset his nose, so it had healed crookedly. For someone so vain, he didn't seem to mind it much, and Sebastian did his best not to find it cute when Jim wrinkled the wretched thing whilst puzzling out broken bits of computer systems.

That nose crinkled even more when Jim attempted to navigate their kitchen. Sebastian had once made all of their meals, but he'd gotten out of the habit of eating, never mind making anything more complicated than toast, and although Sebastian's inclination to eat grew back the more he returned to caring for his own body, he felt far too petty to make meals for two.

At first.

He started to 'help' Jim after the idiot genius almost set the place on fire, but hadn't said anything the first few times Jim burnt himself. Sebastian felt odd when that happened; wasn't sure whether he ought feel vindicated or sympathetic. Surely he shouldn't still feel protective?

For a clever man, Jim was hopeless in the kitchen. He had a perfectly functionable understanding of complex chemistry, and focus enough to see through far more intricate and time-consuming projects, but he just did not have the attention-span or co-ordination for cooking. It wasn't that his fingers lacked dexterity either – he just fumbled his way into burning himself and dropping things and cutting his fingers and banging his head with cupboard doors and slamming his bandaged fingers in the cutlery drawer and…

He was just a bit of a mess, really.

Sebastian sighed. “Move it,” he said gruffly.

Jim had given him a wide-eyed, horribly hopeful look that Sebastian did his utmost to ignore. It lingered under Sebastian's skin for days, and despite how he tried to resist, the blond found himself pushing the hapless Irishman out of the way once again to 'save the kitchen from burning down'. And again. And again, and all the whilst Sebastian growled at Jim that this didn't mean anything, and that Jim was just useless, and and and Jim just looked so disgustingly, painfully _grateful_ that Sebastian felt unclean and distressed afterwards.

Jim had never bothered faking such an expression before, and the raw convincing ingenuity of it gave Sebastian the creeps. He glared at the little bastard and made sure to leave Jim all of the washing up.

Jim was laughably incapable of navigating the blender to make Sebastian a smoothie in the morning before a run, and equally incapable of creating a passable fry-up on Sebastian's rest days. Jim could, however, just about manage making sandwiches, providing Sebastian scolded him thoroughly enough about his proven ineptitude with sharp knives and slippery tomatoes that Jim managed not to bleed all over the countertops.

Coming home to lunch being ready for him (admittedly a cold and predictable lunch) was an odd experience for Sebastian. It was odder still when he was _home_ and Jim got up to start preparing lunch for them both.

“Who even are you?” Sebastian had muttered. Jim had looked over, seeming somehow _guilty_ as if the psychopath was even capable of that.

“Just a sandwich,” Jim had mumbled, except it wasn't, it was three, because Sebastian ate like a horse usually, and besides it wasn't 'just a sandwich' at all, because trying to get back into someone's graces with a cold lunch after you faked blowing your own brains out meant nothing would ever again be 'just a sandwich', would it?

Sebastian Moran could not be bought with three sloppy sandwiches nor a pathetic display of big, dark chocolate puppy eyes from London's most dangerous little bastard.

Sebastian put his foot down when Jim started to attempt to make dinner. The blond wasn't sure why, except for that Jim was a fucking calamity in the kitchen and that accepting these weird changes was far too much like pretending things in this new topsy-turvy world were okay.

They were not okay. Nothing would ever be okay again.

Jim looked close to tears when Sebastian kicked him out of the kitchen. Sebastian grew annoyed at them both for his feeling bad about that.

“Do you want a blowjob?” Jim asked about six months in.

Sebastian had stared at the little apparition. “What?”

Jim had squirmed under Sebastian's gaze, but persevered. “A blowjob. I could-”

“You've never offered me anything in your life without wanting something in return,” Sebastian said starkly, “and you've _never_ offered me a blow.”

Jim Moriarty had the good grace to look ashamed of himself. “I'm trying to be different-”

“I don't trust you,” Sebastian had snapped, and the bald cruelty of it had made them both flinch.

That had been the end of that, except it hadn't been, because the idea had wormed its way into Sebastian's twisted little pea brain. It was probably addled after all of the drinking.

It was rather taken with the idea of Jim Moriarty on his knees giving a very remorseful blowjob. 

Which was pointless, because it would do nothing to make Sebastian forgive. Although perhaps Jim deserved to be used, after what he'd done. Sebastian tried to close the door to the master bedroom and lie on his back on their – on _his_ bed- and stroke himself thinking about it, but it was difficult to think of Jim in any sexual capacity without thinking of how much they _used_ to have sex, and how much hurt had come between them to stop that.

Sebastian had stormed from the room indignantly after having the common sense to put himself away. Jim looked up at Sebastian's noisy entrance.

“Do you still wank?” Sebastian had demanded.

Jim had blinked up at him slowly. “Occasionally...” he said warily.

“What do you think about?” Sebastian demanded.

Jim flushed, which was alien in itself, and looked away. “Stuff,” he muttered. “Us.”

“Specifically,” Sebastian insisted. He towered above Jim, who was sitting cross-legged amidst intricate pieces of circuit-boards. Jim seemed to have fixed a lot of his destroyed tech.

The brunet shrugged his shoulders and looked up reluctantly. His voice was oddly thick with embarrassment as he admitted, “I think about us. You know, when we were… together. Or… if we were still… well, what that might be like. Nowadays.”

“We're not together?” Sebastian said.

Jim's shoulders started to tighten as Sebastian spoke, but the questioning tilt of Sebastian's rough voice made Jim push aside his toys. “Are we?”

“I don't know,” Sebastian snapped. “I hadn't thought about… I don't know!”

“I didn't think you wanted-”

“I _don't_ want to be!” Sebastian snapped. “But that doesn't mean that we _aren't_! We live together, we...”

“Avoid each other and don't sleep together or kiss or share much intimacy...” Jim supplied very quietly.

“Because you hurt me!” Sebastian shouted. “We don't do that because you- _I just can't!_ ”

“I'm sorry,” Jim said. “If I'd understood at the time how much it would matter, what it would to to you and… us… I wouldn't have. But I don't know how to take it back.”

“Thought you were clever?” Sebastian spat, but he didn't really expect an answer. He turned and massaged his face. “I'm still so angry.”

“You're allowed to be,” Jim said.

“You don't get to tell me what I'm allowed!” Sebastian said, spinning back around. He groaned angrily. “I don't know how to _stop_!”

“Take it out on me,” Jim offered quietly.

Sebastian stared at the Irishman. “I don't want to.”

“What do you want?” Jim asked.

Sebastian rubbed his face again. “For all of this to be over?” he said. “For us to be okay again, maybe, but I don't know how to get there and I don't want to go back to the way things used to be, where you could _do_ things like what you did, without even including me.”

“I fucked up,” Jim said. “Not involving you was the biggest mistake I've ever made. I didn't account for… feelings, and… I think, if we are ever going to be okay, we need to, I need to… acknowledge feelings.”

“I loved you, and I didn't ask for anything back, but you ripped my heart out of my chest,” Sebastian said harshly. “You can _acknowledge_ that, but it doesn't repair this sick, empty, heavy _ache_ in me. ”

“I didn't plan to,” Jim said. “I didn't know- I didn't know what love felt like, or looked like, I didn't think you would care like you did-”

“How could you not know how I felt about you?” Sebastian snarled. “I'd have laid down my life to you, done anything for you-”

“I just thought that was your job!” Jim said. “To please me, to keep me safe, I… I just thought you were good at your job, and you liked when we had sex, and-”

“How could you not know?” Sebastian bellowed. “Geniuses should _know_ -”

Jim started to exclaim back but broke off. “I've never had a-!” He swallowed and crossed his thin arms over himself. “I've never had anyone before,” he admitted softly.

Sebastian pressed his lips together. After a beat he said roughly, “You had _me_.”

“And you were the best thing I've ever had and I didn't understand it,” Jim said. “I still don't understand it but I'm trying to. I miss you more than anything.”

Sebastian wanted to point out that they'd been living together again for months, but he doesn't. “I miss you too,” he said. “But I don't forgive you. I can't, even if I wanted to, and I don't know that I do. I'm still hurting so, so much… I can't even tell you.”

“What if I was someone else?” Jim whispered. “What if you didn't ever forgive what I did, but we started over, as someone I didn't do this to, and someone who didn't do this? Could we pretend?”

“I don't want anyone else,” Sebastian scoffed. “I want you, but I hate you, and that's where we are.”

Jim looked stricken. “I don't want you to hate me, but I don't know how you could feel anything else.”

“Me either,” Sebastian said, and he sighed. His stomach grumbled, and he looked towards the kitchen. “You hungry too?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Jim said. “I don't feel-”

“I'm not saying I care whether you eat, but you shouldn't go missing meals just because you're upset,” Sebastian said. “There's little enough of you as it is. Come on.”

Jim followed Sebastian into the kitchen. “I could help-”

“By sitting on your arse and not getting under my feet,” Sebastian said firmly. He glared until Jim sat down obediently, then considered. “What sort of stressed are you? Do you want something light that won't be hard to digest, or do you want something carb-heavy so that if you can't eat much it still keeps you going?”

Jim looked like he was going to cry again. “I don't know,” he said. “Whatever you want.”

Sebastian sighed. “Omelettes, or beans on toast?”

Jim shrugged pitifully.

“I had poached eggs for breakfast, so we're having beans on toast,” Sebastian decided. “Takes the least amount of effort I can think of.”

“I could-”

“You will sit exactly where you are,” Sebastian insisted. “You'd cut yourself buttering toast, or even worse, opening a tin.”

“We've got butter knives,” Jim said.

“And how many times have you hurt your fingers catching them in a draw?” Sebastian said dryly. “I can manage without you sobbing and holding your hand under the tap thank you very much.”

“I'm not useless,” Jim said quietly.

“I know; just annoying,” Sebastian responded. He sighed at Jim's hurt look. “I was joking.”

“Oh,” said Jim.

Sebastian didn't know what to say back, so he occupied himself making food instead.

He felt resoundingly awkward when he sat down to eat with the other man. They didn't really do that anymore. Jim looked oddly comforted by their proximity.

“Don't think this means you're sleeping in my bed tonight,” Sebastian growled.

Jim looked up, wrongfooted. “I didn't-”

Sebastian kept his eyes on his plate and pushed his food around it. “We're not broken up, because we'd both have to know we were a couple in the first place.”

Jim swallowed. He looked miserable, but nodded.

“...We're also not _not_ a couple,” Sebastian added.

Jim watched him very carefully with those incredibly dark eyes of his.

Sebastian sighed and tried to shovel down his food to otherwise occupy himself. He wasn't ready to think about what those eyes made them feel, and he wasn't sure how long it would be before he was equipped to deal with the _emotions_ in them.

Since when was Jim the emotionally aware one? The pasty Irish prick.

Sebastian swallowed.

Jim hadn't said anything. Sebastian got up abruptly and swept the rest of his food into the bin. He couldn't face eating right now.

“Are you alright?” Jim asked quietly.

“No,” snorted Sebastian. “No, and I don't think I will be for a long, long time. But I think I – I think we will be again. Eventually.”

“Thank you,” Jim said quietly.

Sebastian stared at the man. “Eat that, please,” he said gruffly.

Jim's poorly healed nose crinkled. “But you didn't-” he paused and bowed his head to concede the point. Jim never dropped an argument normally. 

He returned his attention to his plate.

“I'll never get used to an obedient Moriarty,” Sebastian found himself teasing.

Jim scoffed softly. “I… don't know if it will last,” he admitted. “But I'll try to do what pleases you more. And take what you say more into account. And… _ask you_ , when I don't know how you'd feel about something.”

“I wish you'd done that before,” Sebastian said. “Asked me, that is. About… going. I don't think I could have taken it if you'd been decent to me before you left. Was bad enough as it was.”

“I wish I had too,” said Jim. “I've always been a horrible person… but I should have treated you better.”

Sebastian tilted his chin. “Why?”

“Why should I have treated you better?” Jim asked. “Because you deserved it, and still do.”

“I'm not a good man either,” Sebastian said. “Maybe I don't deserve-”

“You deserve loyalty,” Jim barked. “And affection, and attention, and… blowjobs whenever you want them, and breakfast in bed when you're sick, and-”

“It would take a miracle for me to forgive you,” Sebastian interrupted.

Jim's face crumpled again, but he looked ready to concede. He always used to act like he was right, like his opinion was most important, like his will was the only thing that mattered…

Everything had changed.

If Sebastian could love the awful man Jim was before, maybe loving the version who was willing to make concessions for Sebastian wouldn't be so impossible.

“But it was a miracle that you came home from the dead, I suppose,” Sebastian said.

Jim's dark eyes shone.

If this new version of him got Sebastian's heart, he could break it worse than before: Sebastian hadn't grieved a man who openly cared for him last time. If Jim left again…

Sebastian somehow felt convinced Jim wouldn't. There in their kitchen, in their ordinary, everyday surroundings, Sebastian gazed at Jim and felt his heavy heart finally feel a bit lighter.

Miracles can happen in moments, and as Sebastian felt himself realise that his trust in Jim wasn't entirely broken, and that he still loved the Irishman _who had finally admitted loving him back_ , such a moment happened.

With bandages on his fingers and breadcrumbs in his stubble, Jim stared at Sebastian over his broken nose and he saw it. The look in Sebastian's blue eyes said he was starting to forgive.


	23. Sentiment

Everyone is born with the first thing their soulmate ever says to them marked somewhere on their skin. It is a perfectly common and natural thing to muse over that comment's meaning, and to wonder what sort of person gave you those words on your skin.

When your soulmark is the phrase 'YOU ALMOST KILLED ME' emblazoned upon your golden skin, perhaps that reasonably gives you the inclination to be reckless your whole life. You are the type of child who jumps from a rooftop into a pool (neither of which your own), races stolen cars in adolescence (not that you couldn't afford your own) and hones every type of martial art and weaponcraft you can get your privileged paws on.

Perhaps you excel at picking fights, especially with strangers, and make sure you always win.

Perhaps you take a string of deadly jobs, with even the SAS kicking you out for being too cavalier with lives not your own.

Perhaps when you are forever marked with the legend 'I NEVER WOULD' it may leave you with a bit of an… inferiority complex.

Perhaps your life has already left you feeling a bit neglected, victimised and vindicated, so you let all of this fuel your drive to be someone no one could find inferior. Someone powerful, smart, rich and – if you crossed said person – deadly.

Perhaps on weak moments you might tell yourself that the words are not an insult or rebuke, but a promise. Perhaps, in truly pitiful moments – and there have been a few of those, not that anyone but you remains alive to remember them- you tell yourself that your soulmate bears something like 'PLEASE DON'T LEAVE ME' on their body.

Daydreams like that are swiftly stifled.

Clearly said soulmate must have 'DON'T YOU UNDERESTIMATE ME' or some such. Perhaps even 'DON'T YOU DISRESPECT ME' if he's cocky, which you rather hope he is. You're a difficult person to love, it would take someone strong[stomached] to love you, and you cannot imagine loving a weak person either.

...You cannot really imagine being loved, truth be told.

Still, when Sebastian Moran's recklessness finally catches up with him and he gets captured trying to assassinate the 'consulting criminal' kingpin Moriarty, he's not terribly afraid; he's excited. How could he not be?

He didn't expect, “You almost killed me!” to be delivered in an Irish lilt. It's a pleasant surprise, even if Sebastian's recklessness already has him bleeding from the ears after a beating from Moriarty's thugs.

Jim Moriarty is a spiteful man, and he has had his entire life to feed the resentment he has felt towards his soulmate for the words of his mark. He has imagined a multitude of punishments for the stranger, but he never quite expected to hear the words spluttered half-laughingly through a mouthful of blood and broken teeth.

“I… never… would!”

There's no need for a perfunctory exchange of soulmark exposing, but they do so anyway. Sebastian's is in a visible place given he is strapped topless and bleeding to a chair, and Jim is so off-guard – a rare thing for him – that he automatically reciprocates when Sebastian twists his body to show his words.

...No one told them what to say afterwards.

“Promise… not to kill you...” Sebastian pants.

Jim gazes at the large, musclebound and violently-bound man before him. He's very handsome, despite -or perhaps because of- the profusely bleeding lacerations and half-swollen eye.

“I suppose I better have someone call you a dentist,” Jim says.


	24. And To All A Good Night

Jim Moriarty stilled and tilted his head to one side. “Shouldn't you be out somewhere?” he asked with a raised brow and cool voice.

“What do you mean?” Sebastian asked. “I don't have any work listed as-”

Jim curled his lip and waved a hand dismissively. “It's almost Christmas; shouldn't you be out buying gifts or something?”

Given that he hadn't been given any leave to do so, Seb wasn't sure where the conversation was going. “Is that your way of saying you're expecting a present? Because you're not exactly giving me much time to come up with a gift idea for the employer who has the world in his back pocket.”

“I hear it's the thought that counts,” Jim said dryly, but there was now an odd little crinkle between his brows that hadn't been there before.

“Well if you're looking for a handmade gift I could use my talents and initiative to take out a certain detective but-”

“Don't you dare!” Jim snapped. “I have a plan for him. And I don't want any presents at all – what I was _trying_ to communicate was that you're due some leave so if you wanted to go shopping, or drinking, or visiting, or… whatever you normally do around Christmas, I can manage without you for a while.”

Sebastian cannot remember the last time he had a 'normal' Christmas and he was not so certain he missed any of that. Still, Jim rarely offered any time off, so Sebastian wasn't going to turn it down.

Not that he knew what to do with it these days. Free time seemed like a thing of the past.

“When do you need me back by, sir?” the blond asked.

That line between Jim's brows still had not smoothed itself. “I don't care. Be back by boxing day.”

Sebastian's own brows rose. “Yes, boss,” he said, and instantly wondered what the hell he could do with that amount of time. He was used to being allocated a few quiet hours here or there to exercise or maintain his weapons but this was… unprecedented. 

Jim nodded briskly and retreated to his office without another word. He left the redolence of his expensive cologne in his wake.

Sebastian was left at a bit of a loss. He didn't exchange presents with his twin brother given that they had spent most of their young adult life touring in the army, and the only sister he liked was a spook even less practical to get ahold of, so he didn't exchange gifts with her either.

He'd been popular enough in the army and during his education to have received and bought various trinkets and novelties, but criminals in his line of business were less in the habit of holding Christmas parties, much less Secret Santas. 

His lifestyle left little time for a lover, so there wasn't one of those to buy for either. Seb spent almost his entire life these days in the company of his ever-demanding principal, so… as sad as it was, he didn't actually _have_ anyone to buy for.

Unless Jim actually _did_ want a present this year. He was fickle and unpredictable enough to determine such a thing on a sudden whim, but what could he possibly want that he could not buy, bargain or blackmail his way into receiving?

The sudden stress of the puzzle made Sebastian's head hurt and he felt a strong urge for a drink. He was halfway to the drinks cabinet when he realised that with his newly granted free time he could _go out_ for a dram. Or pints! It had been a long time since he'd had a pint.

Clubs were out, because Sebastian couldn't relax in dark, heavily crowded environments anymore, and a heavy bass so loud conversation was impossible just made him feel old.

An excursion to a pub then!

Sebastian hadn't done much that day other than exercise and cook, so he was still dressed in sweats and a teeshirt. He took a shower and pulled out a dark shirt. He almost reached for a suit, then realised that as he was not escorting Moriarty, jeans were suddenly a valid option.

Sebastian pulled on heavy denims, boots, a tartan scarf and a thick leather jacket. It had been cold out for months.

Seb checked his pockets for his cigarettes and lighter, then threw his wallet and house keys into his jeans. He felt oddly like he was forgetting something as he left the house without a gun holster, sniper rifle in a bag over his shoulder, or Jim Moriarty squawking in his ear.

He still carried some small defensive weapons of course. No real holidays for a criminal. 

The streets were lit merrily with festive decorations, and it was approaching dark already despite it being barely past lunchtime. There were far more people around than there had been when Sebastian went for his early-morning run, and he resentfully remembered the headlines that retailers had been struggling year on year as Christmas shoppers chose to stay warm inside and avoid the Christmas crowds with a bit of online shopping. The masses of people swaddled in parkas or sequins made Seb begin to regret his decision to venture outside. Clearly these hordes suggested the media were lying bastards. 

He ducked into the first pub he could find that wasn't already spilling out of the door with Christmas parties and festive revellers. He eyed the surroundings warily and approached the bar, unwinding his scarf.

Sebastian ordered a pint and idly observed the people around him: men and women with swollen shopping bags and shiny giftbags. Some giggly women in glitter and flashing head accessories eyed him admiringly and it occurred to Seb with a shock that this was an opportunity to get laid. Moriarty kept him so busy that the blond had almost forgotten what going on the pull was like.

The dead-eyed bargirl brought Sebastian his pint and bared her teeth in a tired approximation of a smile when he tipped. The glass was cold and wet with condensation; Seb supposed as he wrapped his already frozen fingers around it that ordering a coffee might have been a more intelligent option.

Sebastian has barely swallowed the first mouthful when the boldest of the tipsy women approached. He allowed the situation to unfold as one hardly-subtle glance at his left hand had the woman beckoning over the rest of the group.

Amongst the tight party dresses was a shyly smiling young man in a Christmas jumper which declared I PUT OUT FOR SANTA in knitted letters above an image of milk and cookies.

Sebastian met the brunet's eyes and grinned. The man flushed and smiled back widely, which suggested he was a bit sweeter than Seb's tastes usually ran, but…

It had been a while. And this wiry, attractive stranger was certainly passable for a one-off.

“A thing for old, fat men, have you?” Sebastian teased.

The stranger spluttered over his cocktail and giggled in an exceptionally high, embarrassed pitch. “Er...”

“Michelle's got a thing for muscles,” announced one of the drunk women, dragging a dark-haired woman closer.

Seb drew his gaze over both women and back over the bloke. “I like dark hair.” There was no reason not to cover his bases.

Another woman pushed closer. “Oh, you like brunettes, do you?”

“With a mouth on them,” Sebastian twinkled.

Some of the group laughed. “Oh, that's our Nicole,” a dark-skinned blonde said. She was pretty too, and Seb might have said something to that effect, when Nicole smacked her shiny lips and purred, “Guilty...”

Sebastian rolled his eyes, amused. “And a smackable arse too,” he said, taking another drink of his pint, because why not?

Nicole laughed dirtily and gave him a twirl to inspect the goods. The woman linking arms with Michelle drunkenly reached forwards and cracked her palm off of Nicole's bountiful bottom. The women erupted into laughter, and Seb raised his brows at the lone guy in their midst. “What about you?” Sebastian asked.

“Me?” the young man squeaked.

The girls laughed again and encouraged their friend to turn around.

Sebastian put down his drink and leaned in. “Have you been naughty or nice?”

The young bloke tittered sounding both mortified and pleased. In a very quiet voice barely heard over his braying friends, he admitted, “Naughty...”

Seb tutted playfully and cracked his large palm off of the lad's tight jeans. Grinning at the resulting yelp, Sebastian continued, “Sounds like you'll be getting coal in your stocking this Christmas, young man...”

The bloke spun around and looked up at Seb with wide, shy, rapidly blinking eyes. There wasn't much of an age difference between them, but his cheeks were pink and pleased.

Sebastian winked and turned back to Nicole. “What about you, madam? I didn't actually get a good crack of that arse myself...”

The women roared with laughter again, and Nicole obliged gamely. She had quite a bright, fun smile.

“No one's smacked your arse,” said the pretty blonde.

It was Sebastian's turn to choke and he turned to the woman ruefully. “Who says I've been a bad boy?”

“Oh, I can just tell,” she said.

“It's the leather jacket,” Michelle said sagely.

“And his eyes,” the bloke in the Christmas jumper muttered.

Seb nodded and held up a palm. “Alright, alright. Let me have another drink first.” He lifted his glass, swallowed heartily, then returned it to the sticky bar. He turned his back and leant forwards, pushing out his denim clad bottom. “Who's first?” he asked in an only mildly embarrassed voice.

The blonde smacked her hand firmly over both of his cheeks, surprising him. Then Nicole lost no time in giving Seb's arse a good squeeze before giving him a few light, playful spanks.

Sebastian chuckled. “Any other takers?” he asked wryly.

The women cackled and cheered and spilled a few drinks taking turns on his bottom. Seb got a few more laughs by spinning around suddenly, catching a woman who'd been spanking him, and carefully delivering a few playful spanks of his own. She squealed and writhed, laughing, and gave his bare neck a quick kiss as he released her.

“Oh, now I'm getting kisses am I?” Sebastian announced. “Where's the mistletoe for that, eh?”

“We don't need mistletoe!” asserted Michelle's friend, and she pushed another girl forward into Seb's path. He raised his brows casually at the new redhead, and she leaned up and pecked his cheek with a grin.

“Call that a kiss?” Seb protested good-naturedly.

“ _I'll_ show you how it's done!” Nicole offered, and suddenly her tongue was past Sebastian's lips.

He had to wipe lipgloss off of his face when she was finished, but Sebastian grinned at the small crowd and declared, “Now see, that's how it's done, ladies!”

Seb winked at Christmas Jumper Lad. “What about you now? Are you going to show me that the boys' team have got what it takes too?”

“Me?” Christmas Jumper squealed.

“Are you saying you don't want to kiss me?” Sebastian asked, pretending to be offended, but moving back a little to make his body language unthreatening.

“No, I do,” Christmas Jumper blurted. “Er...”

“Do you need me to kiss you?” Seb asked.

The bloke pressed his lips together shyly and nodded emphatically. He put his drained cocktail glass on the bar.

Sebastian dragged the lad in by the front of his jumper and dipped his head close for a firm, slow kiss that made the other man groan low in his throat.

Seb released the man gently. “I'm calling that one for the lads' team,” he announced grandly. Christmas Jumper raised his fingers to his now red lips dazedly.

“You're not impartial enough to decide,” the blonde woman retorted.

Sebastian chuckled. “Well, I'd offer to kiss you, but you'd probably have my arse bared and upright in your lap for the presumptiousness.”

She didn't look disinterested in the latter idea, but she took hold of Seb's jacket and tugged. “Show me what you've got then, bad boy.”

Sebastian grinned and took her waist gently in his large hands. He lowered his head slowly, flinched in surprise as she snatched his lower lip sharply between her teeth, then spun her into the bar and devoured her mouth. The blond took handfuls of his shirt and snatched it up to graze her glittery nails down his broad back.

They were both panting when they pulled apart. Sebastian eyed her interestedly, and stepped back to free her.

“A point for the boys,” the blonde said reluctantly, a threat of a smile in her lips.

“I might be a bad boy but I must have been very good in a previous life,” Sebastian said. She cast him a cutting but not unaffectionate look.

Sebastian downed the rest of his pint. “I think I need another drink.” He drew the bartender's attention. “Shots, ladies? Gentleman?”

His new friends whooped. This having free time thing wasn't so bad.

Sebastian briefly wondered what Jim would be like to take shots in a bar with, the type from a glass not a gun, then pushed that thought aside. No point thinking about that.

But what did Jim mean about a present?

Seb was distracted by a manicured hand forcing a shot glass into his grip. He took it, clinked glasses with his new friends, and knocked back the burning liquid. He found himself laughing and smiling again, and did his best to be charming, but something worked away in the back of his head.

“I need a smoke,” he announced.

“Me too,” the woman with the blonde braids said, and she moved into step at his side as they left the bar area.

The cold air hit Sebastian like a shock, and he looked to his companion. She was wearing a jumpsuit, so her dark skin was more covered than many of her friends, but her stylish coat did not look built for heat.

Sebastian edged closer.

She smiled at him, inclined her head softly towards his shoulder, and reached into her pocket for her cigarettes. Sebastian did the same, and she held out her lighter to him.

Sebastian dipped his head to it, fag between his lips, and realised it had been a long time since he had shared this interaction with a woman. Or anyone, really.

The blonde took a drag from her own cigarette. “Are you always so popular?” she asked after letting the smoke escape her mouth.

Sebastian smiled wryly. “Sometimes. I can barely remember the last time I was allowed out.”

“Married?” the woman asked.

“No,” Seb said. “Just work antisocial hours.”

“Yet you seem so sociable,” she replied.

Sebastian considered then shrugged. “I don't mind people.”

“But?”

“But my boss is pretty demanding and I don't mind that,” Seb admitted.

The blonde took another drag. Sebastian supposed he ought ask her name, but would it be rude by now?

“So why don't you mind?” asked the woman.

Seb pressed his lips together, chuckled uncomfortably, then bared his teeth. “I don't know,” he said ruefully.

“Don't you,” the blonde said with a flat tone and a raised brow that suggested _she_ had an idea.

Sebastian swallowed, embarrassed. “He's not… He's my boss,” he muttered. He settled into uneasy silence, and fell into listening to the music coming from inside the pub rather than think too hard about certain things.

The Pogues drifted out into the December air. If Sebastian listened really hard, he could hear one of the women from tonight's group interrogating Christmas Jumper on whether he found it offensive if she sang the slur in the festive song.

A car pulled up directly in front of the pub and Sebastian gazed idly at it for a fraction of a second before he stiffened. He recognised it.

Jim Moriarty all but fell out of the car before Seb could do much more than push himself away from the wall. The ignored cigarette burned down to his fingertips and he dropped it, cursing.

“What the hell do you think you are doing?” Jim demanded.

Sebastian kicked out the smouldering stub and raised his gaze. “Me?” he said incredulously. He stared at his employer: Jim Moriarty was visibly and surprisingly drunk.

The blonde woman gazed between the two men and watched silently.

Jim stumbled angrily upto Sebastian and glared. He bounced his fist off of Seb's chest and snarled, “I let you out for a while _out of the goodness of my heart_ and you… you do… _this_?”

“I haven't done anything!” Sebastian said, that little niggle at the back of his mind beginning to grow. “You said I could go out!”

“I didn't say you could slut about!” Jim bellowed.

“What?” Seb exclaimed. “That's not… What's that to you?”

“To me??!” Jim screamed. “I'm only your… I-I OWN YOU!”

Sebastian's brain stumbled to keep up. “Well… yeah, but you didn't say… Why would you _care_?”

Jim looked more inclined to dive up and try to throttle him than give a coherent explanation, so Seb turned away from Jim's red face and gave the woman at his back a beseeching look as though she might better understand emotions than he.

“The employer, I presume,” she said.

“Yes!” Jim exclaimed. He grimaced. “Who are _you_?”

The blonde sneered and stubbed out her cigarette. “I think you need to have a chat with your boyfriend, mate,” she said. She stepped back inside the pub.

“He's not my boyfriend!” Jim screamed after her. His face was purple.

“Then why do you care who I sleep with?” Sebastian asked bravely.

Jim turned flashing eyes on the man. “Because!” He didn't seem to have a further argument, so merely repeated it. “ _Because!_ ”

Sebastian sighed and realised Jim Moriarty having a screaming fit in the middle of bustling London was painting a heck of a target should someone recognise the wretched little man. Seb took a rallying breath and grabbed Jim, spinning his even more livid employer around and marching Jim back to the car by the back of the neck.

Jim howled like an enraged demon, which would strike fear into any man with sense. Sebastian didn't have much of either. 

“WHAT. DO YOU THINK. YOU ARE _DOING_???” Jim screeched.

“My job, apparently,” Seb snapped. He shoved Jim into the car, followed him, and closed the door. “Okay, talk,” he said once they were surrounded by bulletproofed glass.

Jim expressed a further scream, kicked the other door, then screamed some more. Sebastian let him; it wasn't that unusual occurrence. Jim suddenly darted at Seb and tried to claw at the bigger man's face and neck; that wasn't entirely unfamiliar either, so Sebastian pinned the exasperating genius' arms until Jim calmed a little.

“Talk,” Sebastian repeated.

“You don't tell me what to do!” Jim roared. “Let me go!”

Sebastian considered for half a beat before he let go of Moriarty's arms, grabbed his shoulders, and shook the man briefly before slamming Jim into the seat. “ENOUGH! Listen to me, you pasty, banshee, little _cunt_ ; if you don't stop drawing attention to yourself I will knock you out until I get you home!”

“WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?” Jim yowled. “You don't-”

“I. Keep. You. Safe,” Sebastian growled. “You think no one's going to notice a tantrum like this in the middle of London?”

“It's London; everyone will look the other way,” Jim snapped.

“But they'll remember!” Sebastian said. “Is that what you want? Why would you-”

“I don't care!” Jim insisted. “Let me go before I make you very sorry...”

“Not a chance until you calm down!” Seb snapped. He turned to the driver, who was trying very hard not to make eye contact. “Take us home, will you, please?”

“Your job is to obey me, not give orders, you deranged cretin!” Jim screeched. “And don't you dare listen to him!”

“ _My job_ ,” Sebastian snarled, “is to _keep. You. SAFE._. Rule Number Two is to obey you, but only if it doesn't contradict with Rule Number One – to keep your underserving, self-important, spoiled and utterly _psychotic_ self safe. So I'm taking you home. DRIVE.”

“No, your job is to please me!” Jim retorted. “Not to… to… _whatever that was!_ Out there!”

“I was talking!” Seb exclaimed. He kicked the driver's seat. “Drive!”

The driver did so reluctantly. Jim glared. “You were trying to get your dick sucked!”

Sebastian's cheeks flushed. “And why would you care? You said I could have the time off!”

“ _Not to do that_!” Jim hissed. 

“Says who?” Seb exclaimed.

“I do! I own you!”

“I'm your employee, not your… your pet! _You can't tell me who I can sleep with_!”

“I sure as hell can!” spat Jim. “You're _mine._ ”

That niggle in Sebastian's mind returned. “I'm your what?”

Jim paled, and then his dark eyes flashed dangerously. “You're just mine. That is the end of the matter.”

Sebastian blinked quickly. “Is it hell the end of the matter! You send me out, and then for some reason you get more drunk than I've ever seen you, and you come drag me home from a pub in central fucking London without even a sniff of a protection team, just a driver, _and you think that's the end of the matter?_ What the actual, everloving _fuck_ James?”

“YOU WERE… fucking… talking to people...” Jim grumbled. “Flirting. I didn't say you could do that.”

“People?” Seb said. “That was one chick-”

“And all those people inside!” Jim yelled. “I saw you! Kissing, and-”

“You were _watching_ me?” Sebastian demanded.

“You're my property,” Jim said. “I was protecting my investment. You're expensive.”

“Oh, I'm not going to hurt your pocket in a minute, Jimmy, because I fucking quit,” Seb snapped. “Where the fuck do you get off on spying on me without even telling me?”

“You can't quit!” Jim snarled. “You signed a contract in blood.”

“Getting snooped on and not getting laid was not in my fucking job description!” Sebastian barked, although he had no intention of quitting, not really.

“I didn't say you couldn't get laid!” Jim snapped. He pressed his lips together abruptly.

Sebastian threw himself back against his seat and felt like pulling his hair out. “ _Then what the hell was all of this about, you crazy fucking little weasel-brained psycho-fucking-path?_

“WHAT DID YOU JUST CALL ME?”

“You heard me, you pasty, Irish runt,” Seb grumbled.

“You call me that again, and I'll feed you your own tongue!” Jim spat. “And if I ever catch you kissing anyone else, I'm feed you _their_ tongue as well!”

“If you keep threatening me I might just forget you're my boss and do something we'll both regret,” Seb growled.

“Fucking. Try it,” Jim hissed. “You fucking coward.”

“Coward!” Sebastian exclaimed. “You fucking spy on me and don't tell me!”

“Why, would you have put on a show if I had?” Jim demanded. “I think you made _quite_ the spectacle already!”

“ _I_ made myself a spectacle?” Seb yelled incredulously. “YOU STARTED SCREAMING AT ME OUTSIDE A PUB FOR NO GOOD REASON. Those people probably think I was cheating on you!”

“YOU FUCKING WERE,” Jim screamed. He blinked, then sat back in his seat quietly.

Sebastian heaved a breath. “You what?”

Jim shook his head and covered it with his hand. “You're right; I'm too drunk. And you're fucking dead.”

Sebastian glared at the other man. “Nah. If I was cheating on you, we'd first have to be together, and _you've never fucking asked me_.”

“I shouldn't have to!” Jim erupted. “You think I- I don't let just anyone live with me! You _sleep_ in my _bed_...”

Sebastian hit his head off of the headrest. “You're too drunk to be telling me this now. This is the sort of shit you should be telling me when you're fucking sober.”

“I'm not telling you anything, you scar-faced ignoramus,” Jim snapped, glaring out of the window. “You should have fucked one of those strangers in the pub toilets. Maybe they'd have given you syphilis.”

“At least they were open about wanting to fuck me,” Sebastian muttered harshly.

“I fucking stalked you to a pub and screamed at you; how much more obvious do I need to be, you lobotomised ape?” Jim complained.

Sebastian was quiet for a beat. “I don't know; you could fucking k-”

Jim swung around and mashed his face into Seb's. There was stubble and teeth and alcohol breath and Sebastian could feel Nicole's lipgloss smearing into Jim's skin but it… didn't feel bad at all.

“I don't quit,” Seb mumbled.

Jim snorted. “I'd put a bullet in you before I'd let you.”

“When you've sobered up I might let you put something else in me,” Sebastian said quietly.

“No, when this car stops and I get you inside I am going to make sure you know that that arse of yours is _exclusively mine_ , and then you are going to nurse me through the hangover I am going to have _because it is all your fault_ , and then I am going to drag you out and get you a bit of metal that makes sure everyone knows who you belong to.”

“What, like a microchip?” Seb scoffed.

Jim yanked the other man close by his dog tags. “No, like a fucking wedding ring, and you won't be allowed out of my house without it.”

Sebastian choked. “Jim-boy, if that's what you call a proposition...”

“It's not a proposal!” Jim snapped. “I already own you; you are mine; I am just making it clear to any little tramps you might encourage that you are permanently off of the market.” 

“Romantic, aren't you?” Sebastian said.

“Not a drop,” Jim said. “Merry Christmas.”

The car drew to a halt and Jim let himself out. As Sebastian followed, Jim spun back around and said, “For the record, once I am done with your arse, you are going to have to go back outside tonight and get me a fucking fabulous gift, because I am very, very mad at you.”

"My arse _is_ a gift.”

“You can't give me something that's already mine,” Jim insisted.

Seb made a face. “Well actually there's this little thing you may have heard of called 'consent', so...”

“For tha mother av god, Tiger, you had best fecking stop talking or the only gift I'll be giving yeh will be two black eyes,” Jim snarled.

“Oh, we are cross,” Sebastian commented. “If I'd known the accent was going to come out I'd have gotten you drunk _far_ sooner.”

“Jaisus, do yah _ever_ stop _talkin_ '?”

“Well,” said Sebastian, taking far too much pleasure in hamming up his own original, plummy accent, “if a _certain someone_ had seen fit to actually communicate his feelings and intentions instead of being _rather unscrupulous_ , and, indeed, _de-fucking-ranged_ , perhaps we might have stayed home all day and buggered each other relentlessly.”

“I fuckingggg hate youuu,” Jim insisted.

“Is that why you wanna put a ring on it?” Sebastian asked smugly.

“I don't wanna put a ring on it; I wanna put ma hands around yer _throat_!” Jim snapped.

Seb pretended to fan himself. “That type of talk is for the bedroom, you ruffian!"

Jim growled, grabbed Seb's belt, and dragged the bigger man inside their home none too gently. “It's goin' the be next year by the time you can sit on yer arse comfortably...”

Sebastian swallowed. “Do you promise, hubby?"

“Ah, feck, how I'm gonna gag you...” Jim muttered.

Sebastian reached for the shorter man." Give me another kiss first... " 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So between my computer inexplicably eating part of a saved document and telling me it didn't exist any more, and feeling a bit icky after an unfunny joke from a dude who should know better... I haven't really felt like writing for a few weeks. Especially not romance.
> 
> Buuuuut by_a_whisker gave me the nudge I needed to post again, so you should totally tell them how awesome they are <3


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